


Crumbs

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Crumbs [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst, Cancer, Canon Disabled Character, Crack, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Multilingual Character, Mutual Pining, Non-Canonical Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Presumed Dead, Prompt Fill, Service Dogs, Sickfic, Tahiti is a Magical Place, Tumblr Prompt, Undercover Missions, Unrequited Love, What Happened in Savoy, Whump, tipsy!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 27,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7485759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompt fills and ficlets written for people on Tumblr.</p><p>[Fandoms and tags to be updated as I add new chapters.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MCU, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson

**Author's Note:**

> The title was inspired by a quote attributed to Aeschylus, who (reportedly) used to say his plays were “crumbs from Homer's big banquets.” I always thought of this as a great metaphor for transformative works.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **themidnightmaven** : "Hi. Can I ask for a prompt of Clint Barton/Phil Coulson please? My prompt is a sentence prompt: “So I'm guessing that was the wrong button to press?” “You think?”"

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, picking up the console in front of him. It fits surprisingly well in his hands, for something that’s supposed to be of alien making.

 “Oh, no, you won’t.” Clint’s voice in his ear is tinny but still discernible, even over the rumble of what Phil really hopes is not the whole building starting to crumble. _Another reason to get this over with_ , he thinks.

“If we don’t blow this thing up, AIM is going to get a hold of it.”

“Phil Coulson, I swear to God –”

“And we all know I can’t let that happen. I’m sorry, Clint.” He turns off his comlink, cutting off Clint’s strangled cry of “Phil, NO!”. He takes a deep breath, and presses the black button at the center of the alien console.

There is a flash, blindingly bright, and Phil’s chest feels like it’s been hit by a thousand bricks. Then everything goes dark.

***

Everything hurts. He’s cold and everything hurts. Someone’s moving him, dragging him over what feels like a literal bed of nails.

“If you die on me, Coulson, I swear I’m going to divorce you.”

***

He feels like he’s floating, and he can see a white light. For a moment, Phil is vaguely upset at the fact that death is so clichéd.

Then he realizes that the reason he can see a white light is because someone is actually shining one in his eyes. He starts blinking rapidly, struggling to move away from the hands touching his face.

There’s a short commotion, ending only when someone takes his hand. Phil doesn’t need to turn around to recognize Clint’s calluses, or the wedding band on his ring finger. As far as he can say, they are now alone in the room.

He tries to speak, but his throat is too raw to do anything other than croaking and coughing painfully. Clint (his face looking a lot more in focus than it was a few moments ago) lets go of Phil’s hand to feed him a couple of ice chips.

When he tries to speak again, his voice comes out clearer, if more than a bit rough. “So, I'm guessing that was the wrong button to press?” is the first thing he says.

“You think?” Clint is keeping his tone studiously blank. _Angry, then._

“Well, I was going for the self-destruct.”

“In that case, you got it, boss.” _Oh._ _Not_ _angry,_ _furious_ _._

“Doesn’t explain why I’m still here.”

Clint gives him a bitter excuse of a smile. “The blast from the explosion knocked you out of the window. I still don’t know how you survived the fall, but here you are.”

“That’s, uh, good. I suppose.”

This time, Clint throws his hands up in frustration. “It’s not good!” he exclaims. “It’s really, really not good. You could have died, Phil, are we going to talk about that?”

“We couldn’t risk AIM get their hands on the weapon. You know that just as well as I do. Blowing it up was – the only logical course of action, I guess.” _It_ _does_ _sound bad when I put it like that._

His husband doesn’t answer, just stares at him, wild-eyed.

“It’s what we do, Clint,” Phil presses on. “We, uh, we save the world, I guess. There are days when that means risking your life.”

“You know, Phil,” Clint finally says, slumping forward in his seat, “sometimes I hate it when you’re right.”

Phil gives him one of his trademark little smiles, hoping that it will soothe his husband’s mood. He’s not happy that Clint is upset, of course, but he’s also in a hospital bed, still aching from what feels like at least a couple of broken bones, and honestly, it’s not like he’s never been on the opposite side of this situation.

“Besides, it’s not the first time this has happened to us,” he ventures, only half-joking. “I mean, you fall out of buildings all the time.”

That, for some reason, makes Clint’s face scrunch up in an oddly unpleasant way. “I guess,” he mumbles, not looking at him.

This time, Phil makes an effort to move his hand to cover Clint’s. “What is it?” he asks.

“It’s – I – it _wa_ _s_ the first time, Phil.”

“The first time I’ve gotten injured? Hardly so. Remember Rio? And Omsk, and –”

Clint cuts him off, eyes still downcast. “It was the first time since we got married.”

_Oh._

“It was all over the paperwork,” Clint continues. “And I – I’m officially your medical proxy now, so they kept asking me about informed consent and procedures and what I’d choose if y- you didn’t wake up after surgery and –” He cuts himself off forcibly. Phil can feel his hand shaking under his own palm.

“Clint. Look at me.”

He does, his eyes shining and lashes crumpled together with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says. “I – didn’t want to put you through this.”

Clint nods, waiting for him to continue.

“I can’t promise this isn’t going to happen again.” For a moment, he feels a jolt of irrational terror at the thought that this is it, that Clint is really going to ask for that divorce.

Then Clint gives him an unsteady smile. “I can’t promise that either, you know.”

“I know.” Phil tightens his hold on Clint’s hand. “I still think we’ll be okay.”

“We will,” Clint agrees, leaning forward to lay his head on the pillow at Phil’s side. The last thing Phil remembers before exhaustion finally overtakes him are Clint’s blue-gray eyes, watching him.


	2. Hamilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **calltomuster** : "Alexander Hamilton, through some handwavey magic, has been brought back to life in the modern day. How does he react to things? (Think QueenWithABeeThrone's [hamdevil au](http://archiveofourown.org/series/369212).)"

“– _of course_ it applies to torture! Who on Earth came up with all this nonsense? Am I supposed to believe that you read ‘cruel and unusual punishments’ and you thought, _gee, I wonder what the Founding Fathers_ really _meant by ‘punishment’_? Isn’t it obvious that you have to focus on the adjectives here? I mean, it’s like – when you read ‘all men are created equal’, you’re not supposed to focus on the fact that it’s about men! Right? …right? …oh, come _on_!”

The man in the powdered wig and frock coat accompanies his words by gesturing wildly. Behind the desk in front of him, another, larger man is looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute. The old, deceptively frail-looking woman sitting to his side, on the other hand, is trying and failing to conceal a satisfied smirk.

“But, Mr. Hamilton…” the man tries to interject. He dabs nervously at his forehead with a large handkerchief. He and the woman are both wearing black robes – Supreme Court Justices, both of them, they’d informed him. (“Are you a judge or a magician?” Alexander had asked the man when he’d summoned him. “Right now, technically, I am both. Welcome to the twenty-first century, sir.” He’d then given him a wide smile that stretched his whole face and brought his chin down to rest on his chest. He looked pretty much the textbook definition of ‘smug’ – an expression he’d lost about as soon as Alexander had started speaking.)

“No, no ‘buts’. I can’t believe you’re asking me this. You brought me back from the dead in order to – to ask me idiotic questions about a text I didn’t even endorse in the first place? Why didn’t you summon someone who actually supported the Bill of Rights? I bet Madison would have been all too happy to help.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” the male Justice says, looking somewhat relieved at the change of topic. “The ritual rested crucially on your, uh, your recent popularity with the masses. We had enough – issues with the summoning already.”

“What Nino means,” the woman interrupts, her voice sweet, “is that you’re the one who wrote this.” She rests a bony hand on a luxuriously-bound copy of _The Federalist Papers_. “Well, most of it, anyway. Justice Scalia, here, is a huge fan.”

“He’s a what now?”

“Ruth, please!” the male Justice harrumphs. He makes a visible effort to collect himself. “Anyway, Mr. Hamilton, the next question regards the right to bear arms…”

“You’re not telling me there’s an ambiguity in this as we- wait a second.” Hamilton’s eyes zero in on Justice Scalia’s hands. “What is it you have there?”

The man looks down, uncomprehending. “I, ah – a pen?”

“That’s not – is that a pen?” Hamilton motions imperiously for Justice Scalia to hand him the offending object. He turns it over, looking at it against the light; then he moves on to trying it by scribbling lines all over his cuffs. “Oh, but that’s marvelous!” he exclaims. “The writing flows so easily – does it ever run out of ink?”

This time, Justice Scalia looks decidedly amused. “About once a month. When it does, you just have to unscrew this cap, here –” he takes the pen out of Hamilton’s hands and begins to demonstrate changing the cartridge.

“And it never breaks, I suppose?” Alexander’s eyes are positively gleaming. “Never dulls? Never gets caught on the paper just when you’ve reached a crucial point in your argument?”

“Never,” the Justice replies, triumphantly.

Alexander claps his hands in glee. He’s started to bounce up and down in his seat. Justice Scalia looks vaguely unsettled by the sight. “Can you imagine how much _more_ I could have written if I had this, back in the days?”

The female Justice gives him another of her deceptively sweet smiles. “I think, Mr. Hamilton,” she says, bending down to pick up something from her messenger bag, “that we ought to introduce you to something else from this century.” She sets something that resembles a slim, oblong metal case down on the desk. It has a bright, rainbow-colored sticker on the lid. (The male Justice eyes it with horror. “Ruth, we literally just ruled on marriage equality, you can’t –”)

When she opens the case, a light comes up behind what looks like the silhouette of an apple with a chunk missing. “Mr. Hamilton,” Justice Ginsburg says, turning a bright screen crisscrossed with what looks like lines of printed text towards him, “have a look at this.”

***

Much, much later, as they’re walking down the corridors of the Supreme Court building, Hamilton (still more than a little excited by his first encounter with word processors) asks, “What did you mean by ‘issues with the summoning’, by the way?”

Justice Scalia’s face turns an interesting shade of purple. “There was a – a priority conflict,” he sputters.

“In more transparent terms,” Justice Ginsburg interjects, once again, “the ritual was dependent on the popularity of the person to be summoned. You might not know it, but you’ve recently hit a spot of notoriety.”

“Do I?” Hamilton asks, a bit peeved. _Wasn’t he notorious enough already?_

“Yes, you have.” Justice Scalia is rolling his eyes so hard, Alexander worries they’re going to fall out of their sockets.

“The initial ritual,” Justice Ginsburg continues, undeterred, “was supposed to bring back the most popular individual from your time.”

“And?” Alexander looks less and less amused by the moment. “Please, don’t tell me you brought back Jefferson on the first try.”

Justice Ginsburg gives him another self-satisfied smirk. “Oh, no, Mr. Hamilton. You are definitely the most popular among the Founding Fathers right now. It seems, however, that we had miscalculated – other factors. Don’t worry, though – our colleagues are dealing with the complications right now.”

Right on cue, the door to one of the offices in front of them opens, and out comes a harried-looking, balding man in Supreme Court robes and glasses. “Yeah, Ruth, about that,” he says. “I think Elena and I could use some help here.”

Before he can shut the door behind him, Alexander hears Angelica’s voice coming from within the room.

“What do you _mean_ , ‘no specific provision on gender equality’?!”


	3. MCU, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **embraceyourfandom** : "I had a feeling today for a c/c new but established relationship fic where Phil totally atypically and kind of, ooops, without meaning to, gets tipsy/slightly drunk and consequently is much much more affectionate and physical than ever in public. Clint is kinda so into this, because silly relaxed Phil's adorable, but also a bit confused at what to do with his suddenly handsy and not at all reserved boyfriend."

“Okay, what did you put in that punch?” Clint hisses at Tony when Phil blows him the third kiss from across the room in about five minutes. (He accompanies it with a wink, this time. Clint swears he’s trying not to blush, but dammit, Phil looks _good_ in those jeans.)

“Who, me?” Tony throws up his hands in a show of innocence. “It was Thor who insisted that I added some of his Asgardian mead.”

“What, the one that can get even Cap drunk? Because that sounds like an awesome idea.”

“He said it affects everyone differently, and that the results are never unpleasant. I thought that sounded nice enough. I can go ask him if we should worry about Agent, if it’ll make you feel better.” The offer is made in Tony’s usual careless tone, but Clint understands that he’s actually concerned about Phil’s well-being – and Clint’s own. He nods his thanks towards him.

“Are you all right?” Natasha rests a hand on his arm as she leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Yeah, I am, thank you. Don’t worry – we’ve talked about this, Phil and I.”

They have – a couple of weeks ago, when they went with Maria, Jasper and the others to Nick’s house for a few drinks, Phil had asked Clint if he’d prefer for him to stay sober for the night. Clint had assured him that he was fine with people drinking, as long as it was in a social setting and they didn’t get too drunk. Phil had seemed relieved, until Clint had asked him if that was why he’d never seen him drink alcohol in his presence before.

“I didn’t want to, uh, make you uncomfortable,” Phil had said, flushing an enticing shade of tomato-red. Now, as his boyfriend (Clint is still a bit thrilled that he can finally use that word) makes his way across Stark’s penthouse with a look that makes him feel more than a bit hot under the collar, Clint is beginning to realize just what Phil was referring to.

“Hi,” he says, eloquently, when Phil comes to a stop in front of him.

“Hi, yourself.” Phil gives him a genuinely happy smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and Clint’s heart skip a couple of beats. Then he leans in and places a kiss on his lips, lingering but not too deep. He nips at Clint’s lower lip a couple of times before pulling away. Clint, for his part, is feeling more than a little dizzy.

Leaning his forehead against Clint’s, Phil whispers, conspiratorially, “I think Stark has spiked the punch.”

“He has. How do you feel?”

“All right, I think, but I probably should have stopped at two glasses,” Phil giggles. He isn’t slurring his words, but he definitely sounds more relaxed than usual.

Also, his hand is sitting a bit lower on Clint’s backside that it’s strictly decent. Not that Clint, y’know, minds that terribly, but they’re in _public_.

As Phil starts nipping at his earlobe, Clint momentarily forgets why that is supposed to be a problem.

As he regains his footing, he decides that it’s better to at least steer Phil towards one of the couches. Which, apparently, means that he has to wrap his arm around Phil’s waist and physically guide him in the right direction, because Phil’s attention seems focused on nuzzling every part of Clint’s neck that he can reach.

As they finally sit down, Clint catches sight of Natasha and Wanda from near the bar. They both give him a thumbs-up and a leer before raising their cups in a toast towards him and Phil. Clint, because he’s a mature person, totally doesn’t stick his tongue out at them.

Meanwhile, Phil has apparently decided that it’s entirely appropriate to lie down on the couch and rest his head in Clint’s lap. He’s started to play with Clint’s hands, spreading his fingers and massaging them. He seems fascinated with Clint’s fingertips and nails, running his own fingers over them again and again.

It would be absolutely adorable, if it wasn’t sending Clint’s mind to places it really, really isn’t supposed to go. Not right in the middle of Tony’s party, at least.

“I love your hands,” Phil murmurs, turning Clint’s attention back to him.

“Yeah, well, they’re one of two things I really need to be Hawkeye.”

“No, you don’t get it.” Phil is staring up at him, frowning like he’s struggling to convey some vitally important concept. “I _love_ your hands. They’re strong and beautiful and yet you can do such delicate things with them. Like that tiny origami bunny you made for me.”

Clint blushes a little at that. He’d made the rabbit for Phil on a whim, long before he gathered up the courage to ask him out. Phil had always reminded him a little of a rabbit.

“Plus, you have calluses in all the right places,” Phil all but purrs, switching his focus back to Clint’s hands. “I _very much_ appreciate that.”

Okay, that’s it, that’s more than Clint can take while keeping his composure in a public place. Time to move this a couple of floors down, to Clint’s apartment. Not that Phil is going to get any sex while he’s so obviously affected by Thor’s mead, but at least Clint won’t be at risk of embarrassing himself in front of everyone. Plus, he sort of really needs a shower. A cold one.

He manages to get himself and Phil up in record time. As they’re slipping towards one of the elevators in what Clint hopes is a non-remarkable way, they’re intercepted by Tony and Thor.

“Son of Coul!” Thor booms, his smile just as wide as usual. “I see that you’ve enjoyed partaking in my choice of drink.”

“I did, Thor, very much. Thank you.”

“It’s a pity that you have to leave so soon,” Tony teases, with a smirk in Clint’s direction.

Phil, however, shakes his head in all seriousness. “My boyfriend said we should go,” he says, matter-of-factly. “And I want to make him happy.” He hides his face against Clint’s neck as he finishes, blushing.

As they finally board the elevator, Clint thinks he might never stop smiling.


	4. Agents of SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **calltomuster** : "Okay, I sent this to another person on Tumblr (ddagent) just as an idea, but I'd love it if you took it as a prompt! Here goes: those pills on Phil's windowsill during the 6 Months Later reveal? They're for depression, but they don't work on Phil that well. So, Mack and the rest of the team get Phil a service dog. It's as much for PTSD as it is for his hand. Now, Phil is initially very opposed to the idea, but over time he grows to accept the golden retriever, even having a breakdown into its fur. Hunter (because he is inexplicably back in this idea) is very amused/annoyed that the dog only answers to Phil. Eventually the service dog becomes a staple on the team and Phil heals. I was picturing a hurt/comfort happy ending, but if you wanted to go dark you could have the service dog die at the end and Phil'd fall into a deeper depression. More prompts are on the way, hopefully!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CallToMuster wrote a delightful companion piece for this prompt from Coulson POV. You can find it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7501938) \-- do check it out, it's amazing.

“This is a terrible idea,” Hunter says.

“No, it’s not,” Bobbi’s voice pipes up from the back of the room. She’s leaning against the wall, keeping an eye on everyone as usual. “It’s one of the best suggestions I’ve heard so far.”

“What if Coulson is allergic to dogs?”

“He isn’t,” Jemma supplies, helpfully. “It would be on his medical records.”

“What is he’s, I don’t know, afraid of them?”

Bobbi gives him a pointed look. Hunter shrugs theatrically. “I dunno. He could be. He doesn’t look like a dog person, is what I’m saying. Me, on the other hand –”

“He loves dogs,” Fitz interrupts him. “Remember that time in Providence with the Bernese puppy?”

“Well, no one could dislike a Bernese puppy. I’m saying it doesn’t count.”

“Coulson likes dogs,” May interjects, her voice level. “Besides, we’re not getting him a puppy. We’re getting him help. Something we’ve not been able to do for months now.” None of the others has anything to say about that.

“That’s settled, then.” Mack wants to close the discussion. Getting Coulson a service dog was his suggestion, and while he’s happy that the team discussed this together, he’s also sure, for once, that it’s the right thing to do. He’s been watching the former Director struggle with everyday life for too long for his liking. Besides, it’s what Daisy would do.

“I’m going to start on the paperwork today.”

***

Coulson’s reaction when Mack tells him about their decision is barely more than a twitch of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t need a service dog.”

“That’s not the consensus within the rest of the team, sir.”

Coulson scratches at his beard. He hasn’t shaven in a couple of days, at least. “We’re trying to bring back a team-mate, here. Having a dog around is only going to hinder us.”

“I think you’ll find that that’s not true. Besides, I’ve seen Luna at work. She’s good. Just give her a chance. You’re good at that.”

Coulson flinches a little at the obvious implication, but doesn’t complain further.

***

When Luna finally arrives at the Playground, the others are content to look from afar as Coulson lets her sniff him from head to toe. He still looks decidedly unamused, but he doesn’t react negatively to the dog. Mack counted on him not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable. Looks like he was right about that, at least.

They don’t talk about the dog any more, but over the next couple of days the sight of Luna at Coulson’s side becomes more and more common at the Playground. She sits before him during meetings, always leaving at least two feet between him and the others. When someone meets Phil in a hallway, Luna will position herself so she’s walking or standing in the middle. Every time she does that, Phil scratches behind her ear and gives her a few words of praise.

It isn’t, however, until Mack stumbles upon Coulson alone that the he has a chance to understand the full import of what Luna is doing. He walks into the common room only to find Coulson there, reading what looks like a biography of Richelieu.

Coulson raises his eyes at Mack, then leans forward towards the spot on the floor where Luna is napping, her paws lying just shy of the carpet. “Who’s there, Luna?” he says. “Say hello.”

Luna jumps up, cocks her head at Mack, then huffs and wags her tail in confirmation before settling back down, resting her head on Phil’s feet.

“Sometimes I’m not so sure about what I see,” Coulson says, simply, before letting the subject drop and asking Mack about his day.

***

“I’ve told you before,” Jemma snaps at Hunter, who’s following her around the lab like a duckling, “she’s a service dog. It’s part of her job!”

“But she never even _looks_ at me!”

“Not true,” Fitz pipes up. “She looks at you plenty, she just doesn’t let you pet her.”

Hunter huffs. “I didn’t try to pet her – even I know better than to try and pet a service dog. I’m just saying, when I catch her eye during meetings, she could at least look back at me rather than just turn her attention to Coulson. It’s hurtful!”

This is, of course, the moment when Bobbi chooses to enter the lab. “Are you complaining because a dog isn’t giving you enough attention, Hunter?”

“Of course not,” Hunter mumbles. “That would be stupid.”

“You’re just worried you’re losing your dog-whispering powers, admit it.”

Hunter’s pout has Jemma laughing for the next five minutes.

***

Slowly but surely, Luna’s presence becomes a staple of life on base. While the others get used to having the dog around, Mack and Melinda keep an eye on the changes in Coulson’s behavior. He’s taking better care of his appearance, for one thing – shaving more often and ironing his shirts again. He’s even spending more time with the rest of the team, going so far as to join them in the common room for a couple of nights. On these occasions, Luna can always be found resting her head on or near Phil’s feet, ready to sit up and press her nose against his hand or lay her paw on his elbow every time he loses himself staring at that one empty spot on the sofa.

One day, on a whim, Mack starts counting how many times Luna touches Phil’s left and right arm. He’s more than a little surprised to find out that she divides her attention equally between the two, not favoring the flesh one over the prosthetic.

Then there are, of course, all the things Mack and the others do not see. The nights when Phil will fall back asleep with Luna’s warm weight on his back, the familiar pressure providing a relief rather than making him feel trapped. The many times the dog has interrupted a nightmare before it became too severe, before the memories started bleeding through to Phil’s waking moments. The simple act of bringing Phil his medication in the morning, keeping an eye on him until he’s swallowed it before going to wait outside the bathroom.

Every time, no matter how emotionally exhausted he feels, Phil makes sure Luna gets at least a few pats and a kind word. In return, Luna will lick his hands and give him a proud dog-smile.

***

The only thing Coulson absolutely refuses to do is bring Luna with him in the field. Mack knows it’s because he doesn’t want to put the dog in danger, but when they’re sent on yet another long stakeout mission, the kind that won’t bring any danger whatsoever and will end with the two of them defeated and exhausted on some deserted street as Daisy slips through their fingers once again, he insists that Coulson brings Luna with him. The fact that he caves in, albeit with some coaxing, is a testament to how much this sort of mission affects his mental state.

It plays out exactly as Mack expected: a few days waiting in a drab, bleak motel suite, the moment of excitement and stubborn hope when they finally catch sight of Daisy, and the feeling of helplessness when she takes off without them (literally – not for the first time, Mack finds himself wishing that he could compliment her on the new flying/jumping technique). This time, as a bonus, there’s no doubt that Daisy saw and recognized both of them, and she chose to flee regardless.

Coulson doesn’t speak a word as they walk back to the motel. As soon as they enter their suite, Luna is at Coulson’s feet. She takes one sniff at him, then immediately starts whining and head-butting his hand away from where it’s scratching angrily at his left arm.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Phil murmurs under his breath. “I need a moment.”

Understanding that the words were spoken as much for his benefit as for Luna’s, Mack quietly pads into his bedroom, leaving the two of them alone.

When he ventures back into the common area, he finds Phil sitting on the floor, his face buried in Luna’s fur. The dog is nuzzling softly at his neck, giving a sympathetic whine from time to time. As soon as she notices that someone else is in the room, however, she huffs and nudges Coulson’s head towards Mack.

Neither of them say a word about Coulson’s red-rimmed eyes. As they’re flying back to base, however, Phil nods at Luna napping on the floor in the Quinjet’s cargo bay and says, “Thank you.”

Mack just smiles back at him.


	5. MCU, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson/Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "Something hurt/comfort for May and Clint over Phil. There's just not enough fics with these two important people to Phil."

“Come on, guys, isn’t this great? Two days in a cabin in the Alps, in spring, all by ourselves.” They’ve barely entered the safehouse, and Clint is already half-sprawled on the couch. He looks genuinely pleased, despite the grimy clothes and the obvious fatigue.

Melinda tries, without much success, to stop her lips from twitching in amusement. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

“The mission’s over and there’s no one to pester us with debriefing. I’m counting that as a win.”

Phil, who’s still busy untying his boots and emptying his backpack, clears his throat loudly.

“You forgot to mention the rain. Or the fact that we’re stuck here until Natasha finishes cleaning up after us,” Melinda shoots back.

“Yeah, well,” Clint shrugs, “there’s that. But Nat said that she’ll be here in a couple of days, so I’m not worried. And the rain will stop. At some point. I guess.”

The sound of the downpour outside seems to grow louder just to prove him wrong. From his position on the floor, Phil clears his throat again.

“Care to add something?”

“Wha– uh, no, nothing,” Phil starts, jumping a little. “I wasn’t really –” He cuts himself off, his face scrunching up comically. Then he breaks into a series of sneezes.

“Well, shit.”

***

About an hour later, they’ve determined that, apparently, SHIELD safehouses in Europe are not stocked with cold medicine. They do, on the other hand, have enough canned food and firewood to last them a couple of weeks, which is something. Something they won’t need, hopefully, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

“Where’s Phil?” Melinda asks, as she and Clint finish surveying the cupboards.

“He shut himself in his bedroom half an hour ago.”

They exchange a glance. “Go get him,” Melinda says, heading towards the kitchen. “I’ll make something warm.”

***

“Phil?”

There’s some shuffling on the other side of the door, accompanied by a bout of coughing. “’m here,” Phil’s voice croaks.

“Open the door.”

“No.” The refusal sounds utterly miserable.

“Come on. Melinda’s making dinner.”

“Not coming.”

Clint rests his forehead against the doorjamb. Phil gets stubborn when he’s sick. “Of course you’re coming. You don’t want to upset Mel,” he teases.

“I’m sick,” Phil whines. “’m gonna make you sick too.”

“You’re not,” Clint coaxes. “We’ve spent the last week together, we would’ve caught it already. Besides, we don’t mind.”

There’s a pause, some more shuffling, and then the door opens to reveal a disheveled and grumpy-looking Phil Coulson. His eyes are swollen, his nose already red from wiping it too many times, and he’s draped a blanket over his shoulders. To complete the picture, he’s sniffling. Pathetically.

Clint can’t help but smile at the unwanted adorableness of the ensemble. He drapes his arm over Phil’s shoulder, guiding him towards the living room.

***

When Melinda comes out of the kitchen carrying two steaming bowls of soup, she finds a small fire burning in the fireplace, and Phil nestled up on the couch with the blanket wrapped tightly around him and his feet tucked under Clint’s thighs for extra warmth. From time to time, he shuffles, sniffles and wipes his nose, still looking utterly dejected.

She glances back at Clint, whose expression mirrors her own soft smile. As much as she’s sorry that Phil doesn’t feel well, the amount of grumpiness he manages to convey when he’s sick is absolutely adorable.

As she sets Clint and Phil’s bowls down on the coffee table, she can’t resist running a hand through Phil’s hair. He immediately leans into the touch, closing his eyes, so she lingers for a moment to scratch at his scalp.

“Be right back,” she murmurs, going back into the kitchen to fetch her own bowl.

When she comes out again a minute later, Clint has already snatched up his bowl and is enthusiastically spooning the warm, spicy soup into his mouth. Phil, on the other hand, still looks uncertain about eating at all. She places the bowl into his hands with a meaningful look.

“’kay,” Phil mumbles. After the first spoonful, however, his expression clears up. As he starts eating, Melinda sits down on the sofa, her right thigh pressed alongside Phil’s left. He immediately leans a little against her shoulder.

“This,” Clint pipes up, solemnly, resting his now-empty bowl on the floor, “was delicious.” Phil nods into his soup in confirmation. “Just how much ginger did you put in there?”

“Enough, apparently,” Melinda answers, smiling. She knows what Clint likes, even though he’ll never refuse to eat anything that’s placed in front of him. As for Phil, the ginger will help clear his sinuses, and maybe give him a good night’s sleep.

As soon as he’s finished with the soup, Phil lets his head drop on Melinda’s shoulder. On the other side of the sofa, Clint is drawing nonsensical patterns on Phil’s knee with his thumb. It’s still early for bed, technically, but they’re all exhausted after the mission, even without Phil’s cold on top of it all. When Melinda starts to feel her own eyelids drooping, she carefully dislodges Phil’s head and stands up.

“Time for bed.”

Clint looks like he wants to complain, but a glance at Phil, who’s already more than halfway back asleep, shuts him up. Between the two of them, they manage to guide Phil through his bedtime routine, having him brush his teeth and put on a pair of (standard issue, but still comfortable) pajamas.

As they tuck Phil into bed, Melinda can’t resist brushing a kiss over his forehead. Clint promptly imitates her, this time on Phil’s cheek. They smile at each other before tiptoeing out of the room.


	6. The Musketeers, Treville/Richelieu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **bean-about-townn** : "hey um... if ur still taking prompts; treville/richelieu, what if LaBarge had actually killed Treville in The Challenge. or some kind of meet cute modern au if you don't like that. (also, u know, welcome to Team Trevilieu ;) so glad there are more people to writing fic for this tiny tiny ship)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with the first prompt, so have a rather obvious **warning** for character death. And some graphic violence, but honestly, nothing worse than the show.

They’re lying in bed, still trying to catch their breath, enjoying the brief moment of warmth and shared silence that normally lasts about as long as it takes for Richelieu’s mind to catch up with the situation. This time, however, it’s Jean who breaks the silence first.

“I’m not going to ask you to call off tomorrow’s challenge,” he says. He’s still half-sprawled on top of Armand, his forearms bracketing his lover’s head where it’s lying on the pillow. As he speaks, his breath ghosts over Armand’s face.

“That’s good,” Armand answers, tilting his head upwards just enough to catch Jean’s lips in a brief kiss. “Because I’m not going to do that.”

He earns himself a fond half-smile as his lover lets his forehead drop against his.

***

“The Musketeer champion, the famous warrior, Captain Treville!”

For a moment, the round of applause and cheering from the Musketeers’ side is drowned out by the roar of blood in Richelieu’s ears. The sudden bout of dizziness makes him almost miss the King leaning towards him.

“My old fox will see off your man, Cardinal,” Louis taunts, his real vulnerability showing clearly under his smug expression. He drops it about as soon as Labarge’s name is announced anyway.

As the two champions take their positions on the dueling grounds, Richelieu answers the King’s hostile questions about Labarge automatically, his mind already reconsidering the outcome of the challenge. Two thousand livres is not a huge loss, after all, even though he would have preferred to keep the money. His influence upon the King will take a much harder blow, of course, but perhaps a gracious demeanor in defeat will help contain the consequences. He wasn’t exactly planning a reconciliation between the Red Guards and the Musketeers, but it will be worth the effort just to see Treville’s frustration when his success in the challenge ultimately works in the Cardinal’s favor.

That will be it, Richelieu thinks, getting more comfortable in his seat. After all, he can’t deny that the sight of Jean humiliating Labarge will be something to enjoy.

***

He wasn’t expecting the sword-fight to evolve into a punching match so soon. He wasn’t expecting the sickening sound of Labarge’s forehead slamming into Treville’s, sending the Captain reeling backwards. He wasn’t –

“That is hardly within the rules, Cardinal!” Louis exclaims, horrified, to his side. Richelieu shakes his head, unable to respond.

“Come on!” Treville taunts, and it’s the scream of a wounded animal, nothing like the controlled strategist the Cardinal knows and enjoys taking apart so much, with words and otherwise. The distraction does allow him to land his first solid hit on Labarge, though, so Richelieu isn’t exactly complaining. As soon as the duel is finished, Treville will go back to –

With a sudden lunge to the right, Labarge slips through Treville’s grip, using this temporary advantage to tear the Captain’s sword out of his hands. There’s a flurry of movement and blades crashing – and, again, the sickening sound of bone breaking.

And then Treville is on the ground, with Labarge on top of him, punching and kicking and bellowing incoherently, no different than a raging beast. The crowd can’t see if the Captain is bleeding, wounded, or just –

When D’Artagnan runs onto the dueling ground, diverting everyone’s eyes to him, including Labarge’s, only the Cardinal is left staring at Treville’s motionless body.

***

The fight between Labarge and D’Artagnan is over as quickly and ruthlessly as it began. As the Gascon intendant drops dead, the audience is left with the task of making sense of what just unfolded.

On the Musketeers’ side, Athos is the first one to move. He runs to Treville’s side, using his jacket to prop his head up, away from the ground. From his position on the stand, Richelieu can see Athos’ lips moving, but he can’t hear what he’s saying.

He realizes belatedly that the King has left the stand and is walking towards Treville. He runs after him.

Treville’s eyes are open. For a moment, Richelieu allows himself to think that he’ll be fine, with nothing more than a couple of broken bones and his bruised pride to mend.

Then he spots the dark stain on the Captain’s chest, sees the blood bubbling up at the corner of his mouth as he struggles to breathe, and he knows that it will be a lot more than that.

Louis is frantically calling for someone to fetch his physician. As long as Lemay gets here in time, he might still –

Weakly, Treville raises his hand towards them – towards Richelieu, but it’s Louis who clasps it in his, kneeling in the mud at Treville’s side.

“Tell my men –” the Captain gasps “– this isn’t their fault.” His breath gurgles painfully in his chest once, twice more. Then, there’s silence.

Once again, it’s Athos who reaches out with a shaky hand to close his Captain’s eyes.

The King stands up, slowly. “Captain Treville died a hero,” he proclaims, tears streaming freely down his face. “The Musketeers have won the challenge,” he goes on, his voice breaking, “but at what cost.”

“Captain Treville died a fool, as he lived, albeit a noble one.” The hoarseness of his own voice surprises Richelieu. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Aramis and Porthos struggling to hold D’Artagnan back from lunging at him. “Still, we must bow to your Majesty’s judgment.”

With that, the Cardinal turns on his heel and walks away from the challenge’s grounds.

***

He’s in his apartments, with no memory of how he got there. He stands in front of the mirror, automatically undoing the buttons on his leather tunic. The light shirt underneath – _Jean’s linen shirt, its ruched collar peeking out of his coat and sending frissons of desire down Richelieu’s spine at the though of_ – the light shirt underneath does a poor job of concealing the traces of Jean’s love bites from the night before.

He’d known. As they were lying together, Treville had known Armand’s plans for the challenge. And there was no doubt about what his choice had been, or why.

_Tell my men this isn’t their fault._

The mirror shatters under the Cardinal’s hand.

“Send for Milady,” he barks at the servant who hurries into the room, following the noise. “Now!”

***

She slips into his office from the secret passage to find him sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. He raises it as soon as he hears her, staring at her with eyes blazing with a hatred she’s rarely seen him display outwardly.

“The Musketeers must be destroyed.”


	7. MCU & Agents of SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **calltomuster** : "Phil Coulson and languages. There. That's it. That's the whole prompt. :)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only one of these languages I speak is Italian. The rest comes from Google Translate, so feel free to point out the inevitable mistakes.

**1.**

Cam is twelve years old. She’s been in Phil’s class for two months now, since her parents emigrated to the US from Vietnam. Right now, she’s on the verge of tears.

Phil Coulson is also twelve years old. He doesn’t know many things yet. (That’s not true – he knows a lot of things, especially about superheroes and American history. And the history of American superheroes. But he will admit that he doesn’t know a lot about teaching.) Despite that, he’s pretty sure that a teacher chewing a student out in front of the whole class because her English is “disgraceful” and she “should be ashamed” and “why do you even bother coming to this country if you don’t care to learn the language” – well, that’s not right.

Phil Coulson hates bullies. He raises his hand.

***

Cam is still hiccupping a little as they wait outside the Principal’s office, but she looks marginally less terrified. She still isn’t speaking, though.

“It was wrong of him to attack you like that,” Phil says.

“I know. Thank you. But my English is bad.”

“Then it will improve. Besides, I like the way you speak.”

Cam glances shyly downwards. “That’s – nice to say.”

Phil grins at her. “I do. How would you say that in Vietnamese? ‘I like the way you speak?’”

“Tôi thích cách bạn nói.”

“Toi thich cach ban noi?” Phil tries.

Cam laughs, her tears already forgotten. “You sound wrong.”

“Well, I never tried it. Of course it sounds wrong. Maybe,” he hesitates, “maybe you could teach me?”

***

**2.**

“Do you know Melinda May?” Jasper asks.

“Of course I know Melinda May.” Phil may not have been at the Academy for long, but he’d have to be a hermit not to have heard about Melinda May. She’s just one year ahead of him, but she’s already at the top of all her classes. Plus, she’s sarcastic, witty, and everyone who’s met her can’t help but admire her. Or so they say. Phil has never had the occasion to speak to her.

“What I mean is, have you met Melinda May? Because if you haven’t, I’m introducing you to her.”

Phil won’t admit it, but he’s suddenly very nervous.

***

“Mel, this is Phil Coulson. He’s the new one.”

“I’m not –”

“Nice to meet you, Phil.” Melinda offers him her hand to shake.

And that, of course, is when Phil’s brain decides to go full awkward nerd on him. “Hèn róngxìng rénshí nì,” he blurts out. _It is an honor to meet you._

_Phil Coulson, you idiot._

Melinda blinks at him. “Hěn róngxìng rènshí nǐ,” she finally replies. “Your tones are terrible. How long have you been studying Mandarin?”

“I – since I got here? I’m in Agent Wu’s class?”

“Then you obviously need to practice. Meet me in the cafeteria at twelve.”

***

Phil holds Melinda as tight as he can, stroking her hair. He doesn’t know what went down inside that building, but he’s starting to form a picture. He hates it.

He’s almost never seen Melinda cry. The few times it happened, it was in the privacy of her room, not in the middle of a street in Bahrain.

“It’s all right,” he tells her. “You have to let the girl go, Melinda. Ràng nùhái qú.”

He knows as soon as the words are out of his mouth that he’s said it wrong. Melinda doesn’t correct him.

***

**3.**

_My name is Agent Coulson. I’m with SHIELD._ He finger-spells the last word before crossing his hands to sign it in full.

Clint Barton snorts. “That pun is terrible.” The man in front of him shrugs. He’s had to holster his gun to free his hands for signing. That was probably not the smartest move, but still, Clint can’t bring himself to take advantage of the situation.

“Also, you know that I’m wearing hearing aids, right? I can hear you.”

“I know,” the man – Coulson – says. “But I don’t get many occasions to practice.”

***

_Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton. I will be your Superior Officer._

Clint doesn’t know if it’s the dorky double sign for SHIELD, or if it’s seeing someone sign his name after all this time, but he can’t help but smile.

***

**4.**

“I’m going to have to take my comm out.”

“That was not the plan, Agent Romanoff.”

“I know,” she says, and even through the earpiece, Phil can hear the tension in her voice. It’s the Black Widow’s first solo mission for SHIELD, and the one condition from Fury was that she never went silent. Plus, the earpiece contains a GPS tracer – if Natasha takes it out rather than turning it off, they’ll lose her.

She’s not supposed to know that last part, of course, but Phil has a definite sensation that she does.

“They have Agent Morse, sir. If I go in with SHIELD tech anywhere on me, they’re going to find out.”

Phil considers their options for a moment, but really, there was never another way.

“Okay,” he answers. “You’re cleared to go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Я доверяю тебе.” _I trust you._ The only answer on Natasha’s side is silence. “Не поймите себя убить,” he adds. _Don’t get yourself killed._

“I’ll do my best, sir.” He hears the click as she switches her comm off.

***

When Natasha comes out of the building, an arm around Bobbi’s waist to support her weight, Phil feels like he’s breathing freely for the first time in five hours.

“Looks like you were right,” Natasha says, as they’re flying back to base. She looks faintly surprised herself.

***

**5.**

Phil expected to find a testy subject in Tony Stark. He didn’t expect to find a man who’s slowly dying, terrified and broken.

“Andrà tutto bene,” Phil tells him. “Si fidi di noi.” _Everything will be all right. Trust us._

Stark looks back at him, his eyes widening in surprise. “How –”

“SHIELD has files on your family, Mr. Stark,” he answers blandly. “That includes your mother.”

***

“I’m just saying, pick a weekend, I’ll fly you to Portland. Keep love alive.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Di nulla,” Tony grins.

It’s the last time Phil speaks to him.

***

**\+ 1.**

“I’m just saying, it’s odd. A whole team of spies, and no one who can speak proper Spanish.” For a moment, Joey looks appropriately horrified at what he’s just said. “I mean, I don’t want –”

“You’re right, Agent Gutierrez,” Phil smiles. “Agent Rodriguez will need a way to communicate with us, and we can’t always count on you being available to translate.”

Joey nods. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t learn much Spanish in school,” Daisy pipes up. “That class came right after my Computer Science lab, and I was more interested in the problems they gave us there.”

“I’m sure Joey can help you brush up on your skills, Daisy,” Phil suggests. “And I’m also sure that Mack will be just as interested.”

***

As the rest of the team files out of the door, Melinda stays behind.

“You still don’t trust the Inhumans,” she says without preamble, shutting the door after Daisy.

“What makes you think that?” Phil answers, innocently.

“We both know you speak Spanish.”

“A little, yes. But I will not be Elena’s primary liaison. It wasn’t relevant.”

“You still could have mentioned it.”

Phil gives her another of his customary bland smiles. “Never give away your advantage.”


	8. The Musketeers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **tatzelwyrm** : "Hello again! Would you consider writing some Treville whump? Perhaps with Porthos taking care of him? This is pretty vague, but there's nothing like it out there, and I'd love to read basically anything with this general theme. :)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for (off-screen) torture and graphic description of injuries.

Splitting up had not been a good idea. In hindsight, splitting up had never been a good idea, so Porthos was perhaps less surprised than he should have been when it led to him and the Captain getting captured.

Then, again, hindsight is easy when you’re not the one who’s currently being tortured by Spanish bandits. Their captors had initially thrown them both in the same cell, then they’d taken a look at Porthos, one at Treville, and decided that they had better chances of breaking the one that was not over six feet tall and a literal mound of muscle. Which was a naive mistake, if you asked Porthos, because if there was one of them that wasn’t going to talk, no matter what they did to him, it was Treville.

All these considerations, of course, don’t do much to distract Porthos’ mind from what’s happening in the next room. He couldn’t hear much when they started, just the occasional grunt from Treville after a well-placed hit. Then they must have realized that mere violence wasn’t going to cut it and switched tactics, because the Captain had started to scream.

Gritting his teeth, Porthos tries to ignore the heart-wrenching sounds that are filtering through the wall. It will do no good to sit there worrying. Instead, he sets to work on the ropes around his wrists. He’s been working at them since they dragged Treville away, and they’re just starting to come loose.

***

“Where are you hurt?”

For a moment, it looks like the Captain might not answer. He’s conscious, but he doesn’t seem aware that his captors are not in the room any more. Well, not alive, at least. When Porthos tries to lay his hands on him to assess his injuries, he flinches away. It takes all of Porthos’ self-control not to turn on his heel there and then and go looking for a few more bandits to unleash his rage upon.

Then Treville’s eyes refocus on Porthos’ face. “I’m okay,” he grunts. There’s blood in his teeth. He bends to the side to spit it out.

“Yeah, right. Can you walk?”

“Let me try.” He makes it to his feet, but Porthos has to catch him when he starts swaying dangerously a moment later. “I’m afraid I will need some help.”

***

They’re far enough away that Porthos is more or less confident that the bandits won’t catch up with them. Well, not immediately, at least. It must have taken some time for them to notice their escape, or they would already be on their trail.

Treville is leaning almost all of his weight onto Porthos’ side as they stumble onwards. From time to time, the Musketeer can hear him stifle a moan of pain. He pretends not to notice.

He’s more worried about the fact that they must be miles away from any populated place, and that he has no idea in which direction the nearest road might be. Treville will need to rest soon, and it would be better if they didn’t stop out in the woods.

The hut, when they find it, is a blessing. Some charcoal burner’s dwelling, by the look of it – barely enough space to fit the two of them, and Porthos has to bend down almost double not to hit his head on the ceiling. Still, it’s a roof over their heads, with a straw bed and even a creek nearby. Porthos isn’t complaining. As for the Captain, he looks too weak to complain either way.

He groans in pain as Porthos maneuvers him to lie down on the bed, before going outside to fetch some clean water. Aramis has taught him more than enough for him to know that the sooner he gets to cleaning the Captain’s wounds, the better chances he has to make it through this.

***

A number of flasks full of icy water and an entire shirt torn and turned into bandages later, Porthos sits down on the hut’s floor with a sigh. If things looked grim before, they don’t look much better now.

The Captain has, predictably, a collection of nasty bruises and cuts, at least one of which bled heavily during their march through the woods. Porthos has cleaned those as best as he could, with the help of a flask of brandy he took from one of the bandits, but he can already picture infection setting in. In addition to that, Treville has at least one cracked rib, which is making it hard for him to breathe without pain. Porthos only hopes that it’s not something worse.

Then there’s his hands. Porthos doesn’t want to know how their captors did what they did, but Treville’s fingers are a bleeding, mangled mess. They seem to have focused on his fingernails – half of them are torn off, and the other half – well. As far as Porthos can tell, they seem to have driven something under them – needles, perhaps, or nails.

The thought alone makes him cringe. The sounds Treville made while Porthos wiped away the blood and splintered and bandaged his fingers did nothing to help.

Right now, the Captain is resting. Porthos can only hope that the others, whatever they’re doing, find them soon.

***

The fever sets in during the night. Porthos had predicted that, of course, but it doesn’t make it easier to just sit there and watch Treville thrash about, moaning and sweating, without being able to do anything. He tries to ignore the disconnected phrases that sometimes pass the Captain’s lips, but when he hears his mother’s name, he can’t help but scoot closer to the bed.

Apparently, this is enough for Treville to regain some alertness and focus on him. “Porthos?” he asks.

“I’m here.”

“Do you remember your mother, Porthos?”

“You know I do.”

Treville smiles, his eyes far away. “She was an amazing woman. And very beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Porthos nods. “She was.”

“As soon as I met her, I could see why Belgard fell for her.” Treville’s lips twist bitterly as he adds, “And then I helped him send her away.”

There’s a pause. Porthos focuses on the beads of sweat on the Captain’s forehead. The faraway look in his eyes hasn’t dissipated, and Porthos has a feeling that he isn’t entirely aware of where he is. Or when.

“I’m sorry,” Treville whispers. “I think about it every day. I was never able to tell her, how ashamed I was – I am.”

“She forgave you, I think. She never spoke of the Musketeers with anything but the highest praise. I grew up thinking that if I could join the Regiment, some day, it would have been worth it, all she’d done for me.”

“I’m sorry about that, too. I see you, and I can’t help but see the baby she was carrying that day. You deserve to be seen as the man you are now.”

Porthos grimaces. “’s okay. Just try to rest, now, hey?”

The Captain falls asleep after that. He’s still shivering and burning with fever, so Porthos starts taking trips to the creek to soak a piece of cloth in cold water and bring it back to wipe his face and chest. He prays silently that it’s enough.

***

In the morning, Treville’s fever is not gone, but it seems to have abated at least a little, leaving him more or less coherent. Porthos barely has the time to draw a relieved breath, however, before he starts hearing sounds from outside. Treville has heard them, too, judging from the way he tenses and tries to sit up.

“No, stay down.” Porthos pushes him back. He’s weighing their chances, but honestly, the situation is more than desperate. “Can you hold a gun?” he asks. He’s taken all the weapons he could carry from the guards he killed, but right now, the main problem is number. Their only chance is to sneak up on the men looking for them, and it might already be too late for that.

Treville looks down at his hands, frustration clearly written on his face. “Maybe, but there’s no way I can shoot. Just give me a sword, or a knife, and I’ll try not to be completely useless.” From his tone, Porthos knows that the Captain’s about as optimistic about their chances as he is, that is, not much.

As Porthos is about to stand up and leave the hut, Treville puts a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever happens,” he says, his jaw set and voice steady, “thank you. It has been an honor to fight with you.”

Porthos nods grimly, grabbing two pistols and turning towards the entrance to their shelter. He’s just able to catch a glimpse of someone entering the clearing, before he hears a familiar voice.

“Aramis! Athos! Come have a look!”


	9. The Musketeers, Treville/Richelieu and (one-sided) Athos/Treville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "Hello! Saw your fics on Ao3! :D If you're still taking prompts, would you consider doing a Richelieu/Treville story with a helping of one-sided Athos/Treville (maybe some jealousy over observed affection. Maybe during a risky situation - foiled assassination attempt? - Athos notices something about Richelieu and Treville and wonders at his strong feelings about it). I saw you like both pairings and so you seemed the right person to prompt who'd treat all characters involved with respect. :D"

Cliché has it that this sort of thing should happen in the blink of an eye, but years as a soldier have trained Athos’ reflexes to the point that the whole scene unfolds clearly under his gaze. They’re walking leisurely under one of the Louvre’s porticoes, Captain Treville one step ahead, side by side with the King and the Cardinal, while Athos follows along with the other Musketeers on guard duty. It’s not uncommon to come across other members of the Court during these walks, so Athos doesn’t spare more than a glance to the two men approaching from the opposite side. One second later, he notices Treville’s head turning to follow the one on the right, closest to the Cardinal. As he imitates his Captain, Athos sees the gleam of an unsheathed blade in the man’s hand.

He’s about to rush forward, but Treville beats him to the punch. As the man suddenly charges at the Cardinal, Treville jumps in between them, shielding Richelieu with his body. The distraction is enough for the other Musketeers to reach the would-be assassin and seize him. As soon as they do, however, the man drops to his knees and starts convulsing on the spot, foaming at the mouth. There’s a bleeding gash on his hand from his own blade.

“Poison,” Athos exclaims. “Get the King to safety!” As the others rush to obey, he turns towards Treville. During the brief commotion, the Cardinal has pushed him into an alcove in the wall, partially shielded from view, and seems to be checking on his injuries.

The odd picture is enough to make an icy feeling rise in the pit of Athos’ stomach. Richelieu is grasping the lapels of the Captain’s coat so tightly that his knuckles have gone completely white. “The blade was poisoned,” he hisses, sounding both furious and terrified. “Did he get you?”

Treville shakes his head. “Not a scratch,” he smiles.

“Good,” the Cardinal whispers, resting his forehead against Treville’s for one brief moment before stepping away as if nothing happened. As he leaves the scene to join the King in his apartments, he brushes his shoulder against Athos’, who is still rooted on the spot. He pays no attention to the fervent gaze the Musketeer throws after him.

***

Now that Athos has seen it once, it’s everywhere.

It’s in the way the Cardinal’s voice changes, becomes more rich and nuanced, when he’s speaking to Treville, or even just in Treville’s presence. It’s in the glances they keep stealing to each other when they think no one is looking – the heat in Treville’s gaze no less unmistakeably vivid than in Richelieu’s. It’s in the way the Captain’s eyes darken when Richelieu touches him under any pretense.

It makes Athos feel sick.

He tries to be rational about it. After all, the Captain’s preferences were about as well-hidden as Athos’ own distaste for women even before this. If he had no qualms with Treville seeking male company in a brothel, why should Athos feel so strongly about this?

The answer, of course, is there, and is enough to send him into a two-day bender in the seediest taverns in Paris. He misses his guard duties, doesn’t tell anyone about his whereabouts, and, judging from the state of his hands and face when he wakes up in an alley on the third day, gets caught in at least a couple of brawls. Or worse.

As he staggers back into his rooms in Rue Férou, Athos finds out that he’s also, apparently, managed to write a letter.

***

“Come in,” Treville says, his face changing from polite indifference to concern as soon as he spots Athos on his doorstep. “Where the hell have you been?” he asks, not bothering to hide the anger in his voice. “Look at the state of you.” He all but pushes a despondent Athos to take a seat. “Do you need a doctor?”

Athos shakes his head. It’s his first reaction since he walked in. Then he digs a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and offers it to Treville.

“What is it?”

“Read,” he says, his voice raspy from disuse and something else Treville can’t place.

The letter is addressed directly to the King. As the Captain reads it, his face goes paler and more pinched by the moment.

“What is this, Athos?” he asks again, in a softer voice, putting the paper down.

“It’s an anonymous report to the King,” the Musketeer answers, the corners of his mouth turning down in clear distaste. “I wrote it last night.”

Treville waits, but Athos gives no sign that he’s going to resume speaking. “You can’t expect the King to believe this,” the Captain finally says in a barely strained voice.

“Who knows?” is Athos’ hollow reply. “If it gets to the right ears, the scandal could be just enough to bring the Cardinal down. And you with him, of course.” He winces, closing his eyes against the throbbing in his head. He wants to throw up.

For a moment, Treville looks uncertain. Then a look of determination crosses his face. “Why did you bring this to me?”

“For you to read it, and burn it.” Athos is doing his best not to choke on his words. “I have made no other copies,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Only at that does the Captain’s forehead clear completely. It makes Athos feel even sicker.

Slowly, Treville stands up, letter in hand, and moves towards the fireplace. Seeing that Athos is making no attempt to stop him, he proceeds to throw the letter in the fire and wait until it’s turned to ashes.

“You’re sure no one else knows about this,” he asks, still crouched before the fireplace.

“You have my word. If you still trust it.”

“The day I do not trust your word,” Treville says, standing up with a grunt, “is the day you all can send me home for good. You’re the noblest man I’ve ever met, Athos, and my friend.”

Athos can do nothing but avert his eyes. The Captain is moving back towards him. He stands back abruptly, ready to leave.

“Your hand, Athos, please,” Treville stops him.

As Athos gives him his hand to shake, Treville pulls him into a short, one-armed hug. The memory of that brief contact burns with more intensity than the shame in Athos’ mind.


	10. Agents of SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **calltomuster** : "Yet another prompt: a conversation between May and Daisy in the hour following Rosalind's death in which May reveals that Phil's father died when he was nine in the same way. Cue Pheels."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another predictable **warning** for references to the death of a parent.

The news comes by means of a text from Mack to Daisy. _Ward shot Price. Current whereabouts unknown. DC is safe, heading back to HQ now._ Daisy expects May to say something about the fact that Mack sort of defaulted to her as the next authority figure, but her only answer is a long string of obscenities uttered under her breath.

Which is entirely out of character, and as such does nothing to prepare Daisy for May’s next question. “Those personnel files the Clairvoyant had gotten from SHIELD,” she says through gritted teeth. “Is there any chance that Ward got access to them?”

“What? I, uh, I suppose so. Maybe. Why, did he ever –”

“You said there was something about Coulson’s father in them.”

“Yes, there was. They called his death a defining moment, or something like that.” She frowns at May. “Coulson didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it, though, as far as I remember. Do you think this has something to do with –”

“Were there any details about his father’s death?”

Daisy hesitates, going over the documents in her mind. “Not in what I read, but there’s no way that was the only file Garrett had access to. If SHIELD had any information about that, chances are Garrett knew about it.”

“And, by extension, Hydra.”

Daisy nods. As May turns as if to walk away, she grabs her wrist to stop her. The look on May’s face tells her that it’s a good thing they know and trust each other, or she probably would be missing a finger or two by this point.

“Wait,” Daisy says. “What does Coulson’s father have to do with Ros- with the death of Ms. Price?”

May’s lips are pressed into a thin line. “That’s not for me to share.”

It’s Daisy’s turn to look determined. “I care about Coulson just as much as you do. I only want to help.”

May’s expression softens marginally at that. “I know. And,” she continues, smiling a little, “I guess if I don’t tell you, you will go hack into SHIELD’s archives and see for yourself. I don’t suppose an outdated clearance-level protocol is going to stop you.”

Daisy grins back at her, triumphant, but May’s face has turned serious again. “Sit down,” she tells her, pointing towards one of the armchairs. Daisy obeys by half, as usual, choosing to perch upon the armrest instead.

***

By the time Coulson and Mack get back to the Playground, Daisy knows everything May can tell her about the day Coulson’s father died – the burglary gone wrong, the way he’d bled to death before the ambulance arrived. The rest – how Phil’s mother must have reacted, a young and frightened Phil finding out about his father’s death – she can only imagine. Despite everything that happened in the last few months, she feels irrationally, unfairly grateful that her own father is still alive.

Her conversation with May makes it even harder to let Phil go into his office alone. It takes all of her trust in May not to rush in as soon as they start hearing the sound of objects crashing.

***

Daisy manages to wait until Coulson’s finished with his impromptu interrogation before bringing up the subject, but in the end, she has to let him know that she knows. “I understand that this must be hard for you,” she says. Sort of a lame opening, but honest, at least. “With the way your father died and everything.”

Coulson stares at her as if she’s just pulled out a gun to his face. “Who told you about that?”

“May did.”

“She shouldn’t have,” he growls.

Daisy holds his gaze and doesn’t back down. “Were you – were you there when it happened?”

Coulson lets his eyes drop to the floor. “No. I’d snuck out that night. My father didn’t want me to leave the house so late, but my friends were – doesn’t matter,” he cuts himself off, the corners of his mouth turning sharply downwards. “That’s how the burglar got in so easily, by the way – my parents thought it was just me making noise downstairs. When I got back to the house, all the lights were on. The police was there. My mother was in the hospital, and my father –” His voice finally cracks. “They hadn’t moved the body yet. Just covered it.”

Daisy’s hands fly up to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Coulson shakes his head. “It was a long time ago. I – I had nightmares for years about finding him still alive, about him bleeding out in my arms. I guess I know how that feels now.”

Daisy feels like she could cry on Coulson’s behalf, but she also knows that he wouldn’t appreciate that. She does the next best thing instead – or, at least, she hopes so. “Is there something I can do to help?” she offers. It will never be enough, but it can be something, at least.

“I’m going after Grant Ward,” Coulson says, tersely. “Don’t try to stop me.”


	11. The Musketeers, Treville/Richelieu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **bean-about-townn** : "hey so i saw that you wanted some more ideas for prompts?? (again, so so wonderful to have new fic for this tiny tiny ship) So, angst again, what about a Treville/Richelieu fic where Marie de Medici was successful in her bid to take power. Treville and Richelieu are both thrown in prison for opposing her, due to be executed as soon as possible. (maybe the musketeers manage to rescue one or both of them. think of the potential angst there. what if they left richelieu? what if they left TREVILLE)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan's plan is, of course, heavily inspired by the plot to rescue King Charles in _Twenty Years Later_.

“It’s my fault,” Treville says, not for the first time, letting his head fall back against the bars of his cell. “I should have told my men to keep a closer eye on her.”

He can hear Richelieu scoff from the next cell over. “Don’t get too arrogant over your involvement, Captain. If this is on someone, it’s on me for underestimating the Queen Mother.”

They’ve been having this conversation on and off for the last twenty-four hours, since they’ve been thrown in two of the Louvre’s holding cells. They don’t know if someone is listening, but it’s likely. Which means that neither of them can say what they want, but they’ve been doing this long enough to understand what the other means. _I’m sorry for failing to protect you_ , Treville says, over and over. _You’re not supposed to protect me._ _If anything, it’s my fault for getting you involved in this_ , Richelieu answers, every time.

They don’t know anything about what happened in Court since they were arrested. They don’t even know whether the King is alive, but neither of them is going to voice that fear aloud. What Treville knows is that they can’t keep them in the Louvre’s dungeon for much longer – a transfer to the Bastille is pretty much guaranteed, and as short as the distance might be, that will be their last chance to attempt something.

 _I’m going to fix this_ , he thinks. He’s decided to blame the exhaustion and the lack of food and water for how sentimental he’s being about this whole thing, but the truth is, he knows Armand is not used to this. He’s used to a different kind of danger, the one that comes from politics and being in control of everything that happens in the reign. Not being trapped in a dark prison, helpless and unable to react.

***

True to Treville’s predictions, they send two carriages to bring them to the Bastille at dawn. He manages to catch a glimpse of the Cardinal as they’re dragging them out of their cells. His robes are filthy, like he’s been purposefully dragged through the mud in the courtyard, and there’s a bruise marring the whole left side of his face, but his back is still straight and he carries himself with the same dignity as ever. It makes Treville furious and proud at the same time.

Richelieu barely turns his head towards him as they’re accompanied outside. As their eyes meet, he smiles imperceptibly.

While the carriages leave through one of the Louvre’s side entrances, Treville does a mental tally of their opponents. There’s at least a dozen guards, six or seven for each of them – too many, unless help arrives from the outside. He bites his lips in anger.

***

Help arrives in the form of four faithful Musketeers. The cavalcade has almost reached the Bastille’s gate when four shots ring out in unison, followed by another fusillade as the guards struggle to regroup and identify their attackers. As his carriage’s door bursts open, Treville catches a glimpse of d’Artagnan’s face. “Get out!” the Gascon exclaims. Treville barely has time to comply before the carriage takes off towards the gates, urged by a terrified driver.

Dread seizes Treville’s gut as he realizes just how close they were to the Bastille when the Musketeers attacked. “Where is the Cardinal?” he shouts. He can see the gates closing behind the two carriages, but he can at least hope –

“They brought him in before you,” Aramis answers, calmly reloading his musket.

“Well, follow them!”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Athos says, appearing at the Captain’s side. “Richelieu has enough bargaining chips to save his life ten times. He's not our responsibility.”

“He is mine. I'm not leaving Paris until the Cardinal is safe.”

***

“I wonder what the Cardinal would say if he knew there are Musketeers out here ready to risk their lives to save him,” d’Artagnan sighs, propping his chin up with his hands. They’ve taken refuge in what Aramis assures them is an abandoned building not far from the Île de la Cité.

Treville's lips curl up in a sphinx-like smile. _“When I write my memories, I will say that my biggest regret is not offering a commission in the Red Guards to a gentleman from Tarbes named d'Artagnan, and I'll make sure to emphasize that you're responsible for this.”_ “I don't think he'd be surprised.”

D’Artagnan scoffs. “Either way, I think I might have found a way to make this work.”

From his position at the other end of the table, Porthos claps his hands. “I’ve always said you were the brains of this enterprise, d’Artagnan,” he exclaims.

“You’d better wait until he explains what he has in mind,” Aramis pipes up, wryly. “With any luck, we’ll be risking our hides for the Cardinal a few more times before this is over.”

***

D’Artagnan’s plan is, indeed, risky, but it’s cleverer than anything the others would ever have thought. It requires them to capture the Bastille’s executioner before Richelieu is sent to the gallows, so the next thing they do the next morning is send Athos to scout the premises.

“The Cardinal is due to be executed in two days, if Aramis’ information is correct,” Treville says, taking his hat and turning it over in his hands. He’s been tense for the whole day before, while they hammered out the details of the plan. Then, again, his position will be directly under the scaffold in Place de Grève, so he has reasons to be worried. The whole operation hinges on his ability to keep calm as the Cardinal walks to his death above him. _Piece of cake._ “If Lady Luck is on our side, we can pull this off.”

“She isn't,” Athos' grim voice says as he appears at the door, his breath still short from running across Paris. “I went to the Bastille. The Cardinal was found dead this morning. Poisoned.” Treville's hands go white around the brim of his hat. “They say he killed himself rather than face the shame of public execution. I say the Queen Mother was afraid of a plan like ours.”

Treville stands up abruptly, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead. “I need some air,” he says, and walks out of the room.

***

Porthos finds him sitting at the top of the stairs half an hour later, his head in his hands. “Athos says the King is in Versailles,” he says, sitting down at Treville’s side. He lets his shoulder bump lightly against the Captain’s. “I think d’Artagnan is drawing up a plan to rescue him.”

Treville’s smile is a bitter, twisted thing. He lets his hands fall to his knees, but keeps staring straight ahead. “Good luck with that.”

“Will you –” Porthos hesitates, like he already knows the answer.

Treville shakes his head. “I’m leaving France for good. Maybe I’ll move to England. I have nothing left to do here.”

***

“You can’t do this.” D’Artagnan is gesturing wildly as he often does when he’s upset. “We need your help! The King needs your help!”

“The King will be fine without me,” Treville answers curtly, turning his back away from his men.

“You have a duty to your country!”

At that, Treville turns around as if d’Artagnan had hit him. “Don’t use that tone with me, boy,” he growls. “There was one man who could solve this whole mess. _Your_ mission was to rescue him, and now he’s dead, so don’t speak to me about duty when you’ve failed yours!”

As he stalks out of the room, Porthos puts a hand on d’Artagnan’s chest. “Leave it.”

***

The woman is arrestingly beautiful, her dark, curly hair and full lips looking entirely out of place amidst the gloom of the English countryside in winter. She’s wearing a ribbon of what looks like burgundy-colored velvet around her neck. She draws her horse to a stop at the side of the road, looking down upon the man who’s picking up weeds in the garden before her.

“You’re not an easy man to find, Captain,” she calls out to him.

The man looks up, startled. “I haven’t been called that in a long time, milady. Who are you?”

“Just a friend,” the woman says, reaching into her corset for something. “I have a letter for you. From your cousin in France.”

Slowly, Treville stands up, brushing his hands over his trousers before reaching for the paper the woman is holding out for him. “I don’t have any cousins in France. None alive, at least.”

The woman’s lips curl up in a smile. “He warned me that you were going to say that. He said you’re not used to receiving letters from him. He also says,” she continues, as Treville opens the letter with shaking hands, “that he hopes you’ll be able to come visit him soon.”

“If you see my cousin, tell him that I am looking forward to it.”


	12. MCU, Natasha Romanoff & Phil Coulson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "i love your previous prompt fills, so i had to submit one of my own! natasha romanoff and phil coulson (friendship) daemon au, please!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely random headcanon about this fill: Phil’s father’s daemon was a wood mouse. He and Phil’s mother met when her daemon captured his by mistake (or so she said – neither of them believe it was really a mistake at all).

“There’s nothing in here about Romanoff’s daemon,” Nick Fury says, closing the thick folder in his hands and raising his eye towards the two agents before him.

Phil’s fingers come up to scratch lightly behind Thlayli’s ears as Barton opens his mouth to speak. Phil’s daemon has already expressed his full displeasure at what the other agent is about to tell Fury, and right now Phil can feel him shuddering under his hand.

“I don’t think she has one, sir.” Under Clint’s seat, Lucky whines softly.

From her perch on the back of Fury’s chair, Nia, his kestrel daemon, flaps open her wings. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil catches Barton’s slight flinch. Bird daemons are uncommon and highly valued, but they still tend to unsettle most people. Phil thinks it’s their eyes, so much more intelligent and sharper than those of their animal counterparts. Of course, everyone knows the stories about Steve Rogers’ bald eagle, the one SHIELD’s logo is modeled after, and Peggy Carter’s raven, but Phil can’t help but think back with fondness to his mother’s barn owl daemon, the way her feathers cut soundlessly through the air when she came back after a night of hunting.

Anyway, Nia’s horror at the news about Romanoff’s daemon is shared by everyone in the room. “I didn’t know that was possible,” Fury says, grimly.

“It seems that the Red Room has figured out a procedure to cut their operatives off from their daemons.” Phil’s stomach twists at the mere thought. He buries his hand deeper into Thlayli’s fur. In turn, the buck rabbit climbs up to nuzzle softly at his human’s shoulder. Phil can feel his soothing presence at the back of his mind.

***

Phil knows the stories, of course. No daemon means no soul, and people with no soul – well. They are the stuff of legend, but that’s not the kind of legend you tell lightly. Still, something in him rebels at the thought of treating Romanoff any different. No matter what, the Director decided they could trust her, and Phil is definitely inclined to share his assessment. Plus, he puts more faith in Barton’s judgment than in any piece of daemon lore.

The rumors start as soon as Natasha officially joins SHIELD’s ranks. The first time Phil hears of it, it’s because of Lucky. He’s pulled out of his office by a commotion in the hallway, only to find Clint’s daemon growling and barking at a hyaena that’s at least twice his size and that Phil vaguely remembers belongs to Agent Garrett. (Clint’s daemon has a thing for picking fights with daemons bigger than him. Once, Phil made the mistake to ask if that was how Lucky had lost his eye, but Clint had just muttered something about his father and walked away. Later, Phil had found Thlayli grooming Lucky and apologizing to him in his office. His daemon had given him the stink eye for a week.)

“What’s happening here?” Phil asks sternly, stepping in between the two daemons.

 _He was talking shit about Natasha_ , Lucky’s voice growls in his head.

“Go away,” Phil orders the other daemon, “before I transfer you and your human to Irkutsk.”

***

It’s not just the daemons, of course. Before long, Coulson has to become creative with his transfer suggestions. It’s just a lucky coincidence, of course, that Melinda May down in HR always approves his proposals to send agents to the most desolate destinations.

As for Romanoff herself, she doesn’t seem keen to talk about the daemon issue at all. That is to say, the few people that have tried to tell her what they thought about it to her face have quickly found their way to Medical with a notable collection of injuries. Phil quietly signs away the complaints, sending them to be buried forever in some bureaucratic loophole.

As for Clint, he’s given R&D the specs for a new batch of trick arrows. Phil pretends not to know.

***

They’re on their fourth mission together when it happens. It’s been complicated right from the start – a foreign ambassador, an AIM cell, and a potential biological weapon are the kind of cocktail that tends to make missions go FUBAR quickly. In the end, the only thing that saves both the op and a couple of agents’ lives is Agent Romanoff’s quick thinking.

It would be a good outcome for everyone, if it wasn’t for the dead ambassador and the fact that Natasha did exactly what Coulson ordered her not to do. Without telling him first. Making everyone think that she’d betrayed them along the way.

Yeah, that didn’t really go well.

***

“I’m not going to start a disciplinary procedure, in case you’re about to ask,” Phil says as soon as the debriefing ends and they’re left alone in his office.

The only sign of Natasha’s surprise is a raised eyebrow. “And yet, you want to talk to me.”

“I do. You realize why what happened today is a problem, don’t you?”

Natasha reflexively clasps her hands behind her back. “I disobeyed a direct order not to engage with the enemy. I undermined both your authority in front of the other agents and everyone’s ability to trust me. I showed that I’m not fit for working in a team.”

Phil raises a hand to stop her. “You didn’t trust me to guide you through the mission the way we’d planned. That’s what happened. And,” he adds, leaning back against his desk, “you were right. We’ll never know what would have happened if you hadn’t gone off the book, but I don’t think everyone would have made it out of there alive.”

Natasha is staring at him in disbelief. “What I mean,” he goes on, “is that today proved that I don’t have your full trust – not in the field, at least. So, what I’m asking is – what can I do better?”

Natasha hesitates for a moment, before turning away determinedly and walking towards the window. She opens it. From his position in a corner of Phil’s desk, Thlayli raises his head and flattens his ears back against his skull.

Through the window comes a small bird – a goldfinch, Phil realizes. It goes to perch on Natasha’s shoulder without hesitation.

If the sight of a European goldfinch in DC was not enough, the bird’s eyes leave no doubt about its nature. It’s a daemon. Natasha’s daemon.

“What –” Phil says, eloquently. At the back of his mind, Thlayli is sending all his surprise and happiness through their bond.

“The Red Room tried to tear us apart,” Natasha answers Phil’s unfinished question. “They didn’t quite manage that. However, Lena still doesn’t trust humans.” _But she trusts you_ remains unspoken, but it hangs clearly in the room.

“Okay.” Phil exhales a shaky breath. Under his awed gaze, Lena hops from Natasha’s shoulder to Phil’s desk. As she lets Thlayli sniff her, Phil turns towards Natasha.

“Thank you,” he says, “for letting me see her.”


	13. Agents of SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "Your fics give me all the Pheels so I thought I'd ask for some more! (Sorry!) Prompt: In the end, it wasn't Hydra or Loki or a criminal that took former SHIELD Director Phil Coulson's life, it was cancer. (Maybe from Jemma's POV? Or not, you choose. Also, any type of cancer, although brain cancer would probably pack the most punch. I'm picturing the story starting with the diagnosis and progressing from there. Again though, you do whatever you want! Thanks so much!)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: my grandmother died of cancer about four months ago, so this is a little personal for me.
> 
>  **Warning** for non-canonical character death and detailed discussion of cancer symptoms and treatment. As usual, feel free to ask me for details, either here or on Tumblr, if you're not sure if you can handle this.

“To be added to the medical records of former SHIELD Director Coulson, Phillip J.”

“September 8, 2016. Agent Coulson came to me yesterday complaining of severe abdominal and back pain. Examination revealed a palpable mass at the back of the abdomen. I have ordered a CT scan to be performed at the earliest possible opportunity. I might be mistaken, of course, but a – a consultation with a specialist might also be useful. Uh, with an oncologist, I mean. I need to ask Fitz to remind me about this. Oh, I will have to delete this part from the records. Maybe Fitz was right about voice notes.”

“It can still be appendicitis or something. No need to worry. No need to worry at all. Oh, this recording is ruined anyway.”

***

“The CT scan for Agent Coulson shows a mass compatible with pancreatic adenocarcinoma. I’m doing my best to speed up the procedure to get an oncologist on base. I have yet to speak to Agent Coulson about this.”

“Pancreatic adenocarcinoma has a five-year survival rate of 5%. The mass in Agent Coulson’s scan looks terribly large. Oh, that’s not a good scientific observation, isn’t it?”

“I’ve decided to wait until I can speak with a specialist about this. No need to be so negative all of a sudden.”

***

“The oncologist was here today. The prognosis from Agent Coulson’s results is – it’s not –”

“I apologize for the poor quality of these notes. The tumor is stage IV, obviously unresectable. I spoke with Agent Coulson about chemotherapy. He says it’s worth a shot. He’s being remarkably calm about this. I’m worried.”

***

“Agent Coulson is scheduled to be transferred to a non-SHIELD medical facility in one week. Apparently, having someone admitted to a hospital under a fake name is a bit of a bureaucratic hassle. I’d never have guessed.”

“I’ve just been rather colorfully told that Agent Coulson didn’t want the rest of the team to be informed of his condition. I wonder how, exactly, he thought that would be possible. If he thinks I’m going to put up with this, I –”

“I’m sorry, that was out of line. I’ll delete the last recording now.”

***

“Agent Coulson is being started on his first chemotherapy cycle today. Gemcitabine was mentioned. I’m afraid most of the doctors here think of it as palliative care more than anything. I may have yelled at them at some point yesterday. Mack – Agent Mackenzie says it’s fine.”

***

“The first complications from the chemotherapy have arisen. I fear pneumonia. Huh. Yeah. Pneumonia is the most likely diagnosis. Fitz says it’s textbook and I shouldn't be worried. They’re treating it with antibiotics, but his immune system is shot, and, well.”

“Please, let him be fine.”

***

“I have talked to the doctors here. The last CT scan shows no visible reduction of the neoplastic tissue. They won’t be starting a second cycle of chemotherapy. They have advised for Agent Coulson to stay in hospital, but I don’t think he’s going to listen to them. Typical of him, I know.”

***

“Agent Coulson was transferred back to the Playground today. No other relevant changes to record.”

“Everyone was staring at him. I don’t think I –”

***

“I had wondered why everyone was so worried about pressure ulcers. Now I know. It seems an antidecubitus mattress is not enough. I asked Agent Mackenzie to help me turn and reposition Agent Coulson at suitable intervals. I can see how much Coulson hates this already, but I can’t find any other solution.”

***

“I brought up the TAHITI procedure as a viable possibility this morning. I am currently banned from speaking to Agent Coulson apart from the necessary medical instructions.”

***

“Agent May was crying in the kitchen yesterday. What do I do?”

***

“Daisy was here last night. I know because all the DNA detectors I programmed for Agent Coulson went off. He's still not speaking to me, and Mack won't admit to contacting her, but I know she was here. Agent Coulson's health is deteriorating rapidly. I'm glad she finally came.”

***

“I know he’s in pain. He was crying when I entered his room today. I’m giving him morphine, but it’s not – there’s not much else I can do. I’m sorry.”

***

“Agent Coulson was unresponsive this morning. I think this is it.”

“I can’t get May to leave him. He’s been mostly unconscious for two days. I don’t know what to do. I can’t believe it’s come to this, after everything we –”

***

“Autopsy records for former SHIELD Director Coulson, Phillip J. Assumed cause of death is pancreatic cancer, with a –”

“I’m sorry. I’m already messing this up. Subject was 52, male, Caucasian. Assumed cause of death, pancreatic adenocarcinoma. Autopsy is required as per SHIELD regulations for agents who have been exposed to, uh, experimental treatment during their lifetime. I will now be performing a, an incision in order to –”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m – I’m so –”

“Jemma? Are you all – Jemma!”

“Fitz, I c– I can’t –”

“Come here. Ssssh. It doesn’t matter. It’s fine, I’m sorry, it’s fine. Now, let’s turn this thing o–”


	14. Agents of SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "Okay, I've got two prompts for you! Here's the first one: Phil Coulson and his newfound issues on non-consensual medical procedures. (I realize this borders on the edge of one of the limits that you outlined in your prompt page, but you don't have to actually write the non-con, just Phil reacting to attempts to do it on others, maybe? Or maybe he gets hurt and the team has to decide what to do but people are like, we shouldn't do it without his consent because remember "Let me die, please!")"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for PTSD and flashbacks. This is set after 3x06, so the non-consensual medical procedure is technically canon and offscreen, but you may want to mind that as well.

_I should be freaking out_ , is the first thing Phil thinks. This, finding out what the ATCU does to Inhumans – he should be horrified. Instead, he feels a sort of distant admiration. To be honest, everything feels very distant right now. 

“It’s efficient, I’ll say that.” He’s stalling for time, and that should be obvious to Rosalind. It probably is. At the back of his mind, Phil wonders if she understands why.

And yet, what she’s saying makes sense. It would make sense even without her personal history, but when Phil finally realizes where she’s coming from, he feels like such a monumental idiot.

Then, again, it would be easier if everything was just black and white. It would be easier if he knew whether he can trust Rosalind or she’s been playing him from the start. It would be easier if he could blame someone for what was done to him. If he could hate Fury, or the doctors, for it. He doesn’t.

_This is wrong! Listen to him!_

One of his hands is shaking so hard that he has to stuff it in his pocket. The other one is always, terrifyingly still. For a few seconds he struggles to remind himself that his most powerful opponent, aside from Hydra, is in front of him, that he has to keep her distracted.

“I got to be honest, I didn’t expect –”

“What? That I’m human?” Rosalind’s smile feels sincere. So does Phil’s.

“Not all of us are. Not fully.”

***

He’s barely set foot back under the Playground’s roof when Daisy comes barreling towards him. He fights hard not to flinch at the sudden movement. The explanation that follows would be hard enough even if it wasn’t for the way the white noise at the back of Phil’s head grows louder and louder by the minute. Every time he blinks, he can see the patterns flashing behind his eyelids. _Lines, circles, ovals. Streets, buildings. Don’t forget, get them out, make them permanent. Make everyone see. Please let me die._

“We’ll talk about this,” he finally tells her. “And about you disregarding my orders, and spying on me. Right now, I need –” _I need to be alone_ “– time to evaluate the information we’ve gathered from the ATCU. I’ll be in my office.”

***

There’s someone in the room with him. _Stop fighting it, Agent Coulson._ They’re touching him, a hand on his shoulder. He flinches so hard, he thinks he might have hurt them. _Please, I’m begging you, let me die._

“Coulson! Can you hear me?” _Come back, come back come back come back –_

Her. He might have hurt her. It’s not someone, it’s Sk- Daisy, it’s Daisy, he’s –

“You’re in your office, at the Playground. Uh, SHIELD facility. Today is November 4, 2015. It’s five in the afternoon, your name is Phil Coulson, you’re the Director of SHIELD, and I think you just asked me to let you die so I’m going to need you to help me out here or I’ll have to call Dr. Garner.” Daisy blurts out the last part of that sentence without pausing for breath.

Bile rises up at the back of Coulson’s throat. _Flashback_ , he thinks, willing himself to calm down. He recognizes the signs – his heart is racing, his skin feels clammy with sweat ( _ugh_ ) and crawling with pins and needles. Daisy is crouching in front of him. Ah, yes, he’s on the floor, apparently. _Ugh._

“Sorry,” he says, voice coming out scratchy through his constricted throat. It hurts to swallow. “I think I need a moment.”

“Yeah, you do,” Daisy grumbles softly, raising to her feet and stepping away from him. “I’ll be right here.”

***

“Was it about TAHITI?” Daisy prods gently. They’ve moved to a more conventional position – Phil in the chair behind his desk, Daisy perched on the desk itself.

He grimaces around the glass of water she’s poured for him. “What do you think?”

She shakes her head. “It was about TAHITI. Why?”

“What I saw at the ATCU. It – brought back things.”

“It’s wrong. What they’re doing, it’s wrong.” Daisy’s eyebrows are drawn together.

“It’s never a black-and-white choice.” He forces a smile. “Was Project TAHITI wrong?”

“Judging from what it did to you,” she answers, gently, “I’d say it was.”

 _It brought me back to life._ “Would you have done any different?” he asks, raising his eyes towards her. “If you knew it was the only chance. I was already dead – it’s not like I had anything to lose.”

She shakes her head again. “Those people are not dead.”

“I know. And they didn’t ask for this. But maybe they would, if there was a cure.”

He sees her flinch slightly at the word. “That’s not the ATCU’s choice to make.”

Phil rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Is it ours?”

“Remember when Ian Quinn shot me?” Daisy starts again, trying another angle of attack. The way Phil shudders at the memory is enough of an answer. “Simmons told me about it. You were screaming for her not to give the GH serum to me.”

 _The thought of putting you through that –_ “But she did. You wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for that.”

He sees her purse her lips, considering her next answer. She could bring up the fact that if she hadn’t been Inhuman herself, the injection of GH.325 would have sent her towards the same psychotic spiral the other patients ( _Phil_ ) went through. She could, again, point out that the lives of the Inhumans going through terrigenesis are not in danger. That they, unlike her, had a choice, and the ATCU is taking that choice away from them. Phil knows all these objections well.

He prevents her. “I want you to talk to Rosalind. Tell her what you’re saying to me now.” He swallows back the thought that he’s avoiding this confrontation. This is not his battle, and he trusts Daisy to speak for herself. It will do, for now.


	15. The Avengers & Agents of SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "And here's the second one: Jemma and Skye (pre-Hydra reveal) through some hand-wavey magic end up time traveling back to the Helicarrier on May 4th, 2012 and have to watch Phil get stabbed by Loki. (Skye wants to stop it from happening but Jemma insists that they can't mess up the timeline!) However, they do talk to Phil as he lays there dying because they know from Phil himself that he doesn't remember much of the incident himself."

“Uh. That was _not_ supposed to happen.” Simmons frowns, blinking furiously to free her eyes of the after-image of the blinding flash of light that just hit her.

“I’d guessed that,” Skye’s voice says from her side. “The question I’d like to ask now is, what the hell happened, exactly?”

She casts a wide-eyed look at her surroundings. The rest of the team seems to have disappeared, and the two of them have been relocated to – a sort of hangar? Whatever it is, it looks like it’s moving, as the hum of engines under her feet reveals. There’s something else – a distant rumble, or something of the sort, but she can’t quite pinpoint what it means. “Where are we?”

Jemma’s frown deepens. “I think – we are on board of a Helicarrier, apparently. Which is, uh, unexpected, since as far as I know the only Helicarrier in SHIELD’s possession has not been in service since it was attacked a year and a half ago, right before the Battle of –”

Before Skye can cut in to ask what in the world is a Helicarrier (and who is in charge of naming things at SHIELD, because come on), a sudden explosion brings down half the wall of the hangar, on the side farthest away from them. A moment later, something green flashes in Skye’s peripheral vision. “Was that – holy shit, that’s the Hulk!”

Jemma grabs Skye’s hand, immediately breaking into a run towards the nearest door. Her other hand is digging frantically into her pocket.

“I don’t see how your phone is going to help!” Skye shouts, following her as fast as she can.

“I think I know where we are!” Jemma shouts back. “We have to take cover!” As soon as they’ve shut the door behind them, putting the (flimsy, all things considered) protection of a steel wall between themselves and a raging Hulk, Jemma shoves her phone in Skye’s face.

“What is – oh.” The numbers flashing on the screen say, _04/05/2012_. “We _traveled back in time_?”

***

“So today is the day the Battle of New York happened?” Skye pants, turning back towards Jemma. It took less than five minutes for her to pull up a map of the Helicarrier from one of SHIELD’s servers (“Wasn’t that supposed to be encrypted?”) and download it to her phone. Now, she’s using it to direct them to a safe place. Well, safe-ish. As safe as they can be while the Avengers and Loki are tearing the Helicarrier apart. She’s trying, all right?

“Yes!” Jemma hisses. “Which is why we have to find somewhere to hide, and fast, before people around here start dying. I mean, Agent Coulson himself died today, technically, so it’s –”

“Okay, wait, what?” Skye skids to a stop, leading Jemma to crash against her back. “Agent Coulson did what today?”

“He died,” Jemma repeats. “He didn’t tell you about that? He was fatally wounded during the attack on the Helicarrier on May 4th, 2012. He was resuscitated, of course, but his heart stopped for almost a minute, and –”

“We have to find him!” Skye exclaims, turning and starting to push Jemma back towards where they came from. “How did that happen? Where is he?”

***

“Okay,” Skye whispers, crouching behind the railing at Jemma’s side. They’re close enough to see Loki sitting in his cage, but not so close that he’s noticed them. At least, she really hopes so. “Do we know what happens from here?”

“Well, no, not exactly. I know that Agent Coulson went against Loki alone, and that Loki stabbed him with his staff – that much is in his file.” Jemma is frowning at her, not for the first time in the last few minutes.

“So we don’t have a plan.”

Jemma’s frown deepens. “What do we need a plan for?” Skye raises her eyebrows at her. “Oh, no. No, no. Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Simmons. Don’t tell me you thought that we were going to stay here and watch Agent Coulson get killed without doing anything about it.”

“We can’t intervene!” Jemma hisses. “It’s already happened!”

“Well, it won’t happen _this time_!”

“You don’t understand.” Jemma is shaking her head vigorously. “I don’t mean that we shouldn’t do anything, I mean that we _can’t_. It’s fourth-dimensional perspective – Minkowski, you know? Unless we’re able to create a totally different timeline, which is technically impossible, again, because the physics of the space-time continuum don’t allow –”

An impatient gesture from Skye cuts her off. “For those of us that aren’t Fitz? We can’t change the past because physics?”

Jemma deflates a little. “Yes, that’s what I was saying. Unless your name is Steven Moffat, and even then it’s –” Her new tirade gets muffled by Skye’s hand against her mouth, as someone – _okay, that’s Thor, because that’s Skye’s life now_ – marches into the room.

***

“Move away, please.”

“There he is!” Skye whispers, clutching Jemma’s hand. The scene in front of them didn’t look like it could lead to anything good for the Avengers until Coulson appeared. Now, though, as he threatens Loki with an admittedly quite impressive sort of jumbo-sized weapon, the projected outcome is a lot better.

“Even I don’t know what it does,” Agent Coulson continues, his voice as steady as his aim. _Go, AC, you show him._ “Wanna find out?”

As Loki’s spear appears through Coulson’s chest, Skye’s cry gets drowned out by Thor’s shout of “Nooo!”.

***

“You’re going to lose.”

“Am I?”

“It’s in your nature.”

Skye is crying. She thinks that Jemma might be too, but she’s too focused on not missing a word from Agent Coulson’s lips to check. Rationally, she knows that he’s not going to die. Well, not permanently, at least. Still, right now, Coulson is dying, and he’s dying a hero, and Skye thinks that he deserves someone who will listen to his last words. Someone who isn’t Loki.

“Where is my disadvantage?” the Asgardian asks. Skye feels an overwhelming urge to punch that smug smirk off his face.

“You lack conviction.”

As the shot from Coulson’s weapon sends Loki barreling straight through the wall, Skye jumps up and cheers. She doesn’t care that Loki might see her.

“So that’s what it does,” Coulson whispers, letting his head loll back against the wall. A moment later, Skye is crouching at his side.

“Coulson?” she calls him. “Coulson! Stay with me,” she pleads, her instincts telling her that she doesn’t have much time.

It takes some effort for Coulson’s eyes to focus on her. “Who –?” he chokes out, blood bubbling in his throat.

“My name’s Skye. You don’t know me. Yet.” She smiles down at him. Somehow, she’s gotten hold of one of his hands, and she’s squeezing it tightly between hers. “We will meet in a few months. Don’t ask,” she replies to Coulson’s feeble attempt at speaking. “Look, I know you don’t believe me now,” she continues hurriedly, “but you’re not dying. You’ll make it through this.” Coulson shakes his head. Skye is crying again. “Trust me. You’ll make it through, and you’ll find me, and I haven’t told you yet, but you’re going to give me the home I never had. So thank you, Agent Coulson, for everything you did. Don’t be scared.” She smiles through her tears. “See you soon.”

As Jemma pulls her away from Coulson’s dying body, hurriedly whispering something about someone approaching, Skye gives one last squeeze to his hand. Albeit feebly, Coulson squeezes back.

***

“Something’s wrong,” Jemma mutters.

“Yeah, AC’s dead, that’s what’s wrong,” Skye replies, still shaken. The medical team is carrying Coulson’s body away.

“Yeah, well, apart from that.”

Skye’s attention refocuses on Jemma’s face. “What do you mean?”

Jemma has grabbed Skye’s forearm and is squeezing it so hard it hurts. “They put him in a body bag,” she hisses. “That’s not – you don’t resuscitate people after sending them to the morgue, it doesn’t –”

She’s cut off by a second, blinding flash of light. When they are able to see clearly again, Skye and Jemma find themselves back in the Bus’ cargo hold.

***

 _Please, let me die! Please, let me die! Let me die, let me die…_ It hurts. Everything hurts, he’s scared, and he just wants those people to let him go, _please, let me_ – 

There’s someone clutching at his arms.

“Coulson! Coulson! Come back! Come back, come back, come back. Hang on!”

“Skye. It’s you.” Suddenly, Agent Coulson is staring at her, wide-eyed, with almost the same expression he had on the Helicarrier. It’s eerie. “Skye. You were _there_?”


	16. The Avengers & Agents of SHIELD, Clint Barton & Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "I've been meaning to ask (since it looks like you are still taking prompts) could you do something with Melinda and Clint after the BONY? I think they would be hurting together and that angsty idea in your hands would be wonderful."

Clint Barton has faced a lot of things in the past week. He’s faced Director Fury’s reproach. He’s still facing a disciplinary procedure that might not end with his full reintegration into SHIELD’s ranks. He’s faced Natasha’s understanding, which might hurt more than all the sideways looks and whispers he keeps getting from other SHIELD agents everywhere he goes. He’s faced walking down a hallway at the Triskelion and crossing an agent whose wife he knows he killed on board the Helicarrier.

Most importantly, he’s faced the prospect of living in a world without Phil Coulson. He faces it every day when he wakes up and remembers what happened. It’s more than he ever thought he could survive, and yet.

And yet, he can’t face Melinda May.

It’s his first thought when he sees her waiting on his doorstep. (Technically, it’s Natasha’s doorstep. He’s staying with her until their floor in the newly-renamed Avengers Tower is ready. Yeah, he can’t believe that either.) He isn’t ready for this. He isn’t ready to look into Melinda’s eyes and know that he’s responsible for the death of one of the few people she’s ever loved.

He contemplates running away, but he knows he doesn’t deserve that. The least he can do is face the consequences of what he did. So he waits for Melinda to say something. Or punch him. Or start taking out her anger on him until she’s broken every single one of his bones. It wouldn’t be exactly undeserved.

But Melinda doesn’t look angry. She looks immensely sad, and weary, and – concerned?

“I’m here to talk,” she says, her voice as calm and steady as Phil’s would be in this situation. It breaks Clint’s heart all over again. “How are you feeling?”

And no, Clint is not ready for this. He isn’t ready for Melinda to be worried about him. He could have taken her anger, her blame, whatever she decided to throw at him. But not her worry. He still isn’t sure what he deserves for what he did ( _fear, hate, anger, disgust_ ), but he knows it isn’t _this_.

“Like I killed Phil Coulson,” he answers. Maybe he’s hoping to get a rise out of Melinda. Maybe it’s just the truth.

“But you didn’t,” she answers, still calm. “That was Loki.”

“And I was the one who let Loki in.” He’s already had the same conversation with Natasha. It’s his fault.

The ghost of a smile hovers on Melinda’s lips. “Technically, that was Fury.”

“Yeah,” Clint grimaces. “We’re not being technical here.”

“It was not your fault.”

“Of course it was.” It’s not the first time he’s said this. It still makes him want to throw up.

“It was _not_ ,” Melinda repeats, her eyes flashing dangerously for the first time in their conversation, “your fault, Clint.” She pauses, taking a deep breath through her nose. “I wouldn’t be here if it was.”

 _Which brings us straight to…_ “Right. Why are you here?”

“It’s what Phil would have done.”

And it hurts. It hurts, to hear that. It’s what a part of Clint has been fighting not to think about in the last seven days – that Phil would have wanted him to seek help. That he would have forgiven him – he would have been angry at him, maybe even yelled at him a little for scaring him, and then he would have forgiven him. But he’s not here to do that. And that makes it Clint’s fault.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tries to take a breath and he finds that he can’t. There’s tears running down his face, and he’s hurting and he can’t breathe and –

Melinda’s hand on his shoulder guides him down until he’s sitting on Natasha’s doorstep. She sits down at his side, wrapping her right arm around him. He’s crying into her shoulder now. He tries hard to be ashamed about it, but there’s just so much he needs to feel right now, he has no space for that.

As he slowly calms down, moving from loud, snotty hiccups to quieter tears, he realizes that Melinda isn’t crying. Melinda is staring into the distance, her eyes empty. Her arm on Clint’s shoulders has started shaking.

 _It’s what Phil would have done_ , Clint remembers, and he thinks he understands what’s happening in Melinda’s head. Because Phil is not there, will never be there again, and right now, Melinda is being reminded of that in the most unforgiving way – by getting to take his place.

Which means that it’s Clint’s turn to do what Phil would have done in this situation. “Melinda,” he calls her, his voice still unsteady. “Are you with me?”

She shakes her head, as if bringing herself back from a long way away. “I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not.”

She lets out a long breath, physically deflating and leaning against Clint’s shoulder. “No, I’m not,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he answers, wrapping his arms around her. He shields her from view as she hides her face against his chest, still breathing harshly. He doesn’t think she’s crying. He knows that he won’t be able to see it when she pulls away.

For now, though, he keeps stroking her hair without speaking. He can’t bring himself to tell her that it’s okay again – it’s not, of course, and they both know that. He can, however, be there for her.

It’s what Phil would have done, after all.


	17. The Musketeers, Athos/Aramis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Thimblerig** : "Athos & Aramis or Athos/Aramis, any point in canon: “Too spiky to hold; too precious to drop.”"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disregards series 3, because I still have to watch it.

The first time Athos sees the Dauphin in person, he’s stricken by how incredibly fragile the newborn baby is. It is, of course, an irrational thought – and yet, with the enormity of the secret the baby’s blood holds, it’s as if Athos’ imagination somehow expected him to be bigger, stronger. Instead, he looks like any infant of a few weeks would – tiny, helpless, with a shock of dark hair and ruddy cheeks. And, of course, entirely vulnerable.

As he stares at him, he finds himself thinking that any small accident, no matter how trivial, could be enough to kill him. The nurse, he thinks, might trip over her feet and drop him – by accident, or because someone bumped into her. It would deprive France of its heir to the throne, and free Athos of a burden the heaviness of which he’s just starting to feel.

He closes his eyes against the thought, revulsion making his throat constrict. _This is Aramis’ son_ , he thinks, and God, just putting that into words in his head is enough to make him shudder. He remembers fantasizing about having a son, a thousand years ago, as he and Thomas talked about their future. His brother didn’t care about children, but for him, it was –

He looks down at the Dauphin again. The thought that the baby might die before he grows up anyway, with no need of an accident or a murderous plot, makes his heart clench. He knows that Aramis must be fighting even harder not to let his emotions show on his face.

A glance to his right confirms that. “Let’s go,” he commands, grasping Aramis’ arm in a vice-like grip. His expression makes Athos want to snatch the baby from the nurse’s arms and carry both him and his father far away, where no one will be able to find them.

As for many other things, he knows that Aramis wouldn’t want that. He would want his son to grow up as the King’s heir apparent, at Court, with everyone doting on him and scheming against him until he’s ready to fulfill his role. Aramis is, after all, nothing if not ambitious, and he’s already managed to put his son in the highest position he could ever dream of reaching.

Athos takes a deep breath. He’s being unkind, both to the Dauphin ( _the King’s son_ to everyone but him, he has to remember – he would be better off if he started to think of him in the same way as everyone else) and to his friend, who’s barely managing to hold himself together as they walk away.

Still, a few days later, when Aramis asks him if he wants to hold the baby (to his new lover Marguerite’s horror – and Athos is trying really hard not to think about what Aramis is doing to this woman and why, or he knows he wouldn’t be able to control his anger), Athos steps back as if he’d been asked to pick up a snake.

***

They fall into bed together, as they’ve done so many times in the past, both of them pretending not to know what is going to happen. Aramis’ hands are soft, like a woman’s, but Athos doesn’t close his eyes and pretend there’s someone else in bed with him. He never does. As Aramis’ touch leaves searing trails all over his skin, he wonders if he’s the only one.

Afterwards, as they’re lying in bed, Athos plastered against Aramis’ back, struggling not to make it obvious that he’s holding onto him, he asks, “Do you ever think about her?”

He doesn’t say, ‘the Queen’. It feels too dangerous, even in the privacy of his room.

“I see her every day.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

He can feel Aramis’ body grow tense under his hands. “Sometimes,” he finally answers, after a long silence.

Athos closes his eyes and presses closer against Aramis’ shoulders. It’s only fair, he reminds himself. If Aramis has the Queen, he has Anne. And Anne has been there long before the Queen. It doesn’t matter how far Aramis has wormed his way into Athos’ life – they always knew they had no right over each other.

Or, at least, they were supposed to. If the thought of letting Aramis, or at least this part of him, go hurts as if he’s being torn apart, it’s no one’s fault but Athos’ own.

He knows what he has to do. He just prays that he has the strength to do it.

***

“Aramis slept with the Queen,” Athos says, and it’s like he can see Aramis’ carefully-constructed self starting to shatter in front of him. And all their friends. Let’s not forget that the humiliation he’s forcing Aramis through is public.

The Captain’s disappointment, d’Artagnan disbelief, Porthos’ indignation – nothing is worse than the hollowness of Aramis’ voice, or the way he keeps avoiding Athos’ gaze. All this, and he has yet to deliver the killing blow.

He would be amused, if he didn’t feel like throwing up.

“There’s more,” he presses on, his voice still cold and indifferent. As the words finally leave Aramis’ lips – “The Dauphin might be my son. _Is_ my son” –, Athos knows that he won’t be forgiven for this. Aramis didn’t choose to entrust him with his secret, but he did trust him to take good care of it.

Right now, he’s taking Aramis’ trust and using it to break him. Unsurprisingly, the only one who understands what’s happening is Porthos. Seeing Aramis lean limply into his friend’s hug merely serves as a reminder of what Athos just did.

Still, as much as it breaks him in turn, he’s doing this for a reason. It’s what allows him to keep his voice steady as he tells the others about Anne’s information. It’s the only way he can meet Aramis’ eyes, when the only thing he reads in them is that there’s no way back.

He’s doing this for a reason. For France, he tells himself. For the Queen. For his precious, fragile friend, who keeps looking at him as if he can’t recognize him any more.

That reason, he thinks, is enough.


	18. Agents of SHIELD, Phil Coulson/Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philinda Undercover, day 15: The Missing Horse Mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters are my fills for the [Philinda Undercover](http://fuckyeahphilinda.tumblr.com/undercover) challenge on Tumblr. I'm really glad to have taken part in this -- it was fun, and a great way to get through the boredom that is August at home. All my thanks go to suallenparker for organizing this!

Phil Coulson is not, in any sense of the word, ready for this.

It’s his fault, really. He was the one who insisted Melinda took up this mission along with him. The thing is, he’d seen the spark in her eye while he was laying out the details of the op – an interest that was all the more surprising considering that this was supposed to be undercover. It had intrigued him, and consequently pushed him to try and find out more about Melinda’s sudden change of mind.

“I went horseback riding for a while when I was younger,” she said when he asked. “Before the Academy. Got as far as a couple national cross-country championships. It’s been a while, but I guess it might still be useful if we plan on infiltrating a riding school.”

After that, of course, the choice was straightforward. Bobbi was a great undercover operative, but she didn’t particularly care for horses, and Phil wasn’t going to risk sending Daisy in with so little preparation regarding covert ops. If he insisted that he was going to be the one accompanying May, well, that was 100% because his new arm had a few tricks that might prove useful and not because he was curious to see what Melinda was able to do on horseback.

Which brings us back to the present, and to the fact that no matter how much Phil thought he’d steeled himself for this, he totally isn’t ready for the view in front of him.

May and her horse have been performing a series of increasingly complicated maneuvers in the field outside the riding school for the past half hour. ‘May and her horse’, Phil thinks, because the two are moving as if they were one being. There’s a magic to the way Melinda makes the animal shift seamlessly from a trot to a gallop to a canter, caracoling from left to right and, on a couple of occasions that cut Phil’s breath short, pushing it to jump over one of the fences delimiting the pasture.

The wind is playing in Melinda’s hair, and, every time she gets near enough to see her face, Phil can recognize the happiness in her expression. The beaming smiles she sends him from time to time are making Phil’s stomach do a rather embarrassing series of somersaults.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” a voice pipes up to Phil’s left.

“Yeah,” he manages to say, without taking his eyes off Melinda.

The man at his side laughs. “I was talking about the mare,” he says, “but I feel like we might not be on the same page here.”

Trying not to blush, Phil turns towards his interlocutor. Mr. Lee, one of the horse keepers – or maybe Phil should say, one of the other horse keepers, given that it’s his cover for the mission –, is looking at him with an amused expression. “A horsewoman and her stable groom? Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

“I – we’re not –” Phil stammers.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man says, slapping a heavy hand on Phil’s shoulder. “You do what you love, son.”

As he walks away, Phil is left there, confused and more than a little flustered.

***

“I think I found him!” Melinda shouts, coming across the field towards Phil at a thunderous gallop. This time, she’s riding a beautiful gray stallion. Phil recognizes him as the one Sif had sent them to retrieve, the missing horse from the Valkyries’ herd.

“Good!” Phil exclaims, letting go of the rake he was using to push fresh hay into the manger.

“Yes, but I think his guards found me too!” As if on cue, a series of shots rings out, and four more men on horseback come barreling out of the row of trees behind May.

By this time, Melinda has reached Phil’s position. She brings the horse to a stop in front of him, her face flushed and eyes shining with adrenaline and the excitement of the chase. “Come on,” she says, breathlessly. “Up!”

“What?”

“I said, up!” she repeats, offering Phil her hand. Dazed, Phil takes it, and two seconds later he’s sitting in the saddle behind Melinda’s back.

As she urges the horse to a gallop again, Phil can only hide his face against the back of Melinda’s neck and grip her waist as tightly as he can. He’s _so_ not ready for this.

***

“Well, wasn’t that fun?” Melinda asks, still beaming. She’s inches away from bouncing on the balls of her toes in excitement.

Phil, for his part, can only shake his head. Taking the Bifrost up to Asgard was definitely not in his list of Fifty Things To Do before he reached fifty. ( _You’re fifty-two_ , a fussy voice in his head points out.) Doing that while riding a horse at full gallop, with armed guards in pursuit – well. Let’s just say that Phil is a little shaken, shall we?

“You know,” Melinda says as they board the Quinjet that will take them back to base from the place where the Bifrost dropped them, “this is the kind of undercover I can get behind.”


	19. Agents of SHIELD, Phil Coulson/Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philinda Undercover, day 16: The Teacher Mission.

“I’m turning into you,” Melinda says ( _okay, whines, so sue her_ ), unceremoniously kicking her messenger bag under the coffee table. “And it’s only been two weeks.”

“Turning into me? Really?” Phil’s head appears in the doorway to the kitchen. He still doesn’t know what Melinda is talking about, and yet he already looks too smug for her taste. Then, of course, he’s been way too happy about this particular undercover mission ever since the Director gave them their first briefing, so Melinda is not surprised.

“Yeah,” she sighs, walking into the kitchen only to perch upon one of the stools while Phil putters around, making dinner. If they’re going to play the happy couple for this assignment, at least that means she can enjoy the benefits of Phil’s cooking. “I chewed Tim Kaplan out today because he mixed up the battles of Yorktown and Concord.”

Phil, who is chopping vegetables with his back to Melinda, tilts his head to the side. “Well, that’s a pretty serious mistake.”

Melinda lets her head drop to her cupped hands. “I don’t care about the Revolutionary War, Phil,” she groans. “Okay, I suppose I care, in a very distant way, as any citizen of this country does. But I’m sure I didn’t give a damn about how many battles the average schoolboy could date before we got sent on this stupid mission.”

“So, progress?”

Without missing a beat, Melinda leans in to smack Phil’s arm. “Why are we doing this, again?” she huffs.

“Because our best chance at getting near Mr. Jung alone, or at least not completely surrounded by security, is the monthly teacher-parent meeting at his daughter’s school,” Phil answers, not for the first time since the mission started.

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t be the one playing the teacher. You’re obviously better qualified than me.”

“Well, I may be the one with a history degree, but you have much better chances to subdue Mr. Jung if you get near him, so it had to be you,” Phil says, turning around after dropping the chopped vegetables in the pot that’s already simmering on the hob. “Plus,” he smiles at Melinda, “I’m sure you’re doing great as a teacher.”

***

“…and this is one of the most interesting ways the American Revolution ties in with the French – through war expenses,” Phil triumphantly concludes his explanation. He’s beaming enthusiastically at Melinda, who, for her part, is doing her best to take notes for tomorrow’s class. The best consequence of this arrangement, she thinks – with Phil playing the part of her husband so that he’s able to help her plan her lessons easily, without having to worry about meetings or remote contact –, is that she gets to see Phil unashamedly geek out over the things he studied at university.

This does, of course, have some downsides. Take right now. Right now, Phil’s eyes are sparkling with barely-suppressed excitement behind his reading glasses, and Melinda is finding it incredibly hard to keep their usual boundaries in place. It would be so easy, she thinks as she catches herself staring at Phil’s mouth, to lean in and kiss that proud smirk away from his lips.

Instead, she looks down at her notes and frowns. “I’m not sure I’m 100% clear on the differences between Britain’s financial policy and what the French did, though. I mean, why didn’t the war give rise to similar conditions in Britain?”

“Well, you see –” Phil starts again, gesturing emphatically with his pen. Melinda hides a smile behind her hand. If they have to do this, she can at least indulge herself with a few more minutes of Phil looking happy and in his element.

***

“I think I’m going to miss this,” Melinda muses aloud while they finish packing their bags. The mission went smoothly – their target came to the teacher-parent meeting with only one bodyguard, of whom Melinda made short work. Mr. Jung is currently sitting on a SHIELD plane, with Bobbi working on extracting as much intel as she can from him – which, knowing Bobbi, means everything they need and more. Really, Melinda should be happy that everything is over and went well.

It looks like Phil shares the same perplexity at the sentiment she just voiced. “I thought you hated undercover.”

 _Well, yes, but I had fun pretending that the world wasn’t collapsing around us and that we could both have a quiet, happy life for a while._ “Don’t worry, I still do.”

“Good,” Phil answers, turning one of his shirts over in his hands thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t want that to change.”


	20. Agents of SHIELD, Phil Coulson/Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philinda Undercover, day 26: The Waitress Mission.

“Don't look up,” Paulette whispers conspiratorially, “but I think you’ve got yourself an admirer.”

Melinda May suppresses her sigh with practiced ease, the same way she suppressed her flinch when Paulette first leaned in towards her. “Really?” she answers, carefully keeping her irritation out of her voice. “Who is it?”

“Corner booth. The new regular, the one who looks like an accountant.”

 _Yeah, she would never have guessed._ “I don’t think he looks like an accountant. A lawyer, maybe.” Of course, an accountant is exactly who Adam Harris, Phil Coulson’s current cover, is supposed to be. Paulette has a good eye, but Melinda, who has never spoken to Harris, isn’t supposed to know anything about his profession, so she doesn’t tell her.

“Something boring, either way. Well, he keeps glancing at you. He’s definitely interested.”

“Maybe he just wants another refill,” Melinda suggests, as she starts to brew her twelfth pot of coffee for the day. And it feels like she’s barely started her shift. She’s spent every day in the last two weeks running up and down in (low, thank goodness) heels to bring pot after pot of that sludge to disgruntled students and rude businessmen, so she’s allowed to hate the stuff even more than she usually does.

(Coulson, of course, insists that the diner’s coffee is actually passable. Easy for him, who doesn’t have to smell it for six hours a day.)

“No, that’s not it,” Paulette insists. “He’s not just looking, he’s _looking_ looking. Like you’re the best thing he sees in his whole day.”

“He must have a very dull routine, then.” The trouble is, Melinda can picture the exact face Phil must be making. She’s caught it often enough, when Phil thought she was not looking and let his usual bland mask slide.

“Why don’t you go talk to him?”

Melinda’s tone could cut glass. “I have a boyfriend.” Husband, technically. Of three years. Melinda has never had any regrets about marrying Andrew – and, as for Phil, most of the time it looks like he’s perfectly okay with it. He’s had relationships of his own – more or less casual, but hey, a spy’s life doesn’t exactly lend itself to commitment, unless you’re as lucky as Melinda. That’s what Phil would say, of course. Most of the time, Melinda even believes it.

Then she’ll catch one of those glances – the same ones, apparently, that have been noticed by Paulette as well. The ones that make her think about her and Phil’s relationship in a way she would very much prefer to avoid. These glances are the exact reason they needed to have that talk after they graduated from the Academy – the one where they decided that they were better off as friends, and set their boundaries accordingly.

Melinda breathes heavily through her nose, tuning out Paulette’s reply to her last remark and concentrating on not spilling the boiling-hot coffee. There is, of course, the possibility that Phil is merely trying to attract her attention for something mission-related. Then, again, this would be more believable if this specific mission hadn’t reached a moot point at least a week ago, when it became clear that wherever the exchange of radioactive samples from the nearby power plant was taking place, it was not in this diner. (Melinda can’t say she disapproves of the smugglers’ choice. She would steer clear of this place by a million miles, if she could.) By now, both May and Coulson are basically just waiting for someone to pull them out, and hoping that Sitwell and Hill had better luck infiltrating the power plant itself.

Well, Phil, of course, is mostly enjoying his daily SHIELD-subsidized pancake breakfast and having fun pretending to be an accountant. It was Melinda who drew the short straw (again) and had to go in as a waitress. As if being sent on yet another undercover mission wasn’t enough for her nerves. Honestly, she can’t –

“Hands up in the air, everyone! Don’t move!”

Melinda’s internal rant is cut off as three armed men burst into the room. _Seriously?_ Well, the mission brief certainly didn’t consider armed robberies as a possible complication. Unless this is somehow related to the whole smuggling plot. Right now, however, Melinda is less concerned about the mission and more about assessing the current threat level.

By the time it takes her to scan the room and decide that no one of the customers is armed or likely to intervene, one man is already pointing his gun at Paulette and motioning for her to hand him the cash from the register. Paulette, whose idea of acceptable violence hardly reaches slapping a customer for making lewd remarks at her (she wasn’t happy when Melinda suggested that a couple days ago, even though she finally agreed that he’d have deserved it), is valiantly trying not to panic, but her hands are shaking so much that she’s having a hard time complying. As the man barks at her to go faster, she starts to cry.

Now, there’s a couple of things Melinda should be considering. One, she’s technically still on a mission, and her priority should be maintaining her cover. Two, there is no way Laura-the-diner-waitress knows enough about self-defense to take out three armed men, even if we suppose that Adam-the-accountant would be willing to help.

On the other hand, this mission is practically finished anyway, Paulette is still crying, the man holding her at gunpoint is getting more and more nervous by the minute, and Melinda was already pissed before this started. Plus, there’s a boiling pot of coffee inches away from her hand.

She risks a glance towards Phil, who gives her a minuscule nod, adjusting his grip on the closest available long-range weapon – which just happens to be his pancake platter. His lips are twitching up in amusement, and Melinda finds herself unconsciously mirroring the expression. This is how they work best together – understanding each other and operating seamlessly without the need to speak.

Her small smile still in place, Melinda quietly slips out of her heeled shoes.

A nasty set of burns, a broken collarbone (“Nice aim, Phil.” “I was captain of the Frisbee team in high school. Never thought it would turn out to be useful”), and a well-assorted collection of bruises later, Melinda is standing in front of the now-unarmed thugs. They will need to call for backup soon, in order to bring them in and check if they have any ties to their mission’s targets, but for now, Melinda is content with enjoying the last moments of her adrenaline rush. From behind the counter, Paulette is staring at her with round-eyed admiration.

This time, there is no subtext in the beaming smile Phil sends her. “Enjoyed the mission?” he asks.

“It got better along the way.”


	21. Agents of SHIELD, Phil Coulson & Daisy Johnson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "Different anon here! Your Pheely “Phil gets cancer” fic was so good, I just had to ask for this scene: what was the conversation between Phil and Daisy that one night when Jemma said that Daisy visited?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene from the prompt in chapter 13. The same **warnings** apply: although there's technically no character death in here, this is not a light read, and there is some detailed description of cancer symptoms. As usual, feel free to ask me for details, either here or on Tumblr, if you're not sure if you can handle this.

When one thinks ‘earthquake-related powers’ and ‘ability to control vibrations,’ they usually don’t expect that these would be of much help in opening doors. Breaking them down, maybe, but the resulting noise would defeat Daisy’s purpose in coming to the Playground entirely. As she makes the steel bars resonate until they melt and slide out of the lock, she smiles to herself. Then, remembering the reason why she’s here, she schools her expression back to neutral.

Inside the room, Phil Coulson is in bed, asleep. He looks almost peaceful, at least from where Daisy’s standing. The one IV hooked to his arm is a fairly unobtrusive presence, in contrast to what she was expecting. Seeing him like this, one could almost forget what condition he’s in.

As she steps closer, however, she starts to see all the details that make it clear that Coulson is anything but all right. It starts with the almost complete disappearance of his hair – the only thing Daisy knew to expect –, and ends with the pasty-yellow color of his skin, the way it’s drawn over the protruding bones of his face and it sags under his chin, like old, melting wax. His brow is contracted in a permanent, pained frown, his mouth open to let his labored breaths past. From time to time, his breath hitches, rattling unsoundly in his lungs, then goes silent for a few seconds.

For a while, Daisy just stands there, holding her breath in time with Coulson’s, and trying not to focus on the fact that every time he stops breathing might be his last.

She thought she knew why she came here, but now, as she looks at Coulson’s sleeping form, she doesn’t know what to do. Her plan didn’t go beyond breaking into the Playground and reaching Coulson’s room. She knows that every minute she spends there puts her at risk to be discovered, but she can’t bring herself to wake Coulson up.

She’s been in the room for ten to fifteen minutes when Coulson’s breathing pattern shifts.

“I thought I told you to go to bed,” he says without opening his eyes. His voice is thin and raspy.

Daisy swallows down the tears that are gathering at the back of her throat. “I don’t know who you said that to, but it wasn’t me.”

Coulson’s eyes fly open. “Daisy?” he chokes. He struggles to move to a sitting position, but it’s clear that his strength won’t allow it. Daisy runs to his side, rearranging the cushions behind Coulson’s back in a way that she hopes makes sense. As she does that, she can’t help but notice everything that was previously hidden under the covers – the bruises mottling Coulson’s arms, the way his hands are swollen and deformed by fluid retention. Judging from the way Coulson went still as soon as she touched him, he’s aware of what she’s seeing.

When she’s finished rearranging the bed, she steps back. A full minute passes in silence, as she stares at Coulson and Coulson stares back.

She can’t ask him how he feels. She knows that. Then, again, she thinks, she _doesn’t_ know. She can’t even imagine. And who knows how many occasions Coulson gets to voice how he feels, lately.

“How are you?” she tries, wincing at the way her voice fails mid-sentence.

Coulson’s smile is more of a grimace. “I manage.” Silence, again, until he resumes talking. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

 _Okay, that one hurt._ “Of course I was going to.”

“Yeah.” Coulson’s expression softens. “I’m glad you did.”

There’s tears prickling at the back of Daisy’s eyes. Again. “I’m sorry that it has to be like this.” It’s stupid, but it’s true, and she needs to say that.

“Doesn’t matter.” He lets his head fall back against the cushions, grimacing in pain. “How are you doing, these days?” he asks in the ceiling’s general direction. “Are you – do you have a place to stay? You don’t need to tell me where,” he hastens to add.

Daisy smiles. At least he didn’t ask if she was eating enough. “I’ve got some help.”

“Someone I know?”

“An old friend. He told me to say hello.” _Say hello to Cheese for me._ “I think he misses you.”

She doesn’t know if Coulson’s eyes are shining because of emotion or if he’s just exhausted. “I think I know who you mean. Tell him –” He swallows hard. “Give him a hug for me, will you?” He glances at Daisy’s horrified expression. “He won’t kill you for that.”

She chuckles, a bit of wetness seeping through. “Promise?”

Coulson nods. In the silence that follows, Daisy thinks that he might have fallen back asleep. She steps closer to the bed again, brushing a hand over his forehead. There’s no hiding the fact that she’s crying, now.

At her touch, Coulson opens his eyes again. He reaches for her, resting his hand at the back of her head when she bends down.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

She nods, unable to speak. She’s grasping Coulson’s free hand in hers.

“Good,” Coulson exhales. “I’m so proud of you, Daisy. So proud of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first met the idea of Fury helping Daisy out while she's on the run thanks to [this post](http://dazzledfirestar.tumblr.com/post/145596190513/daisy-running-across-or-helping-to-found-a-halfway). (I also just realized that I hadn't linked to it when I first posted the prompt on Tumblr -- I'm terribly sorry about this, I added the link now.)


	22. Agents of SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **calltomuster** : "Prompt: conversations between Fitz and Coulson regarding his hand."

“There’s, uh, there’s something we’d like to talk to you about, sir.” Fitz glances towards Simmons, looking for reassurance. From behind his desk, Phil Coulson can’t help but smile a little at them. Among all the things that have changed after their final confrontation with Jiaying and the Inhumans, the way Fitz and Simmons seem to have settled into their new dynamic might be the only one Phil would have wanted to happen.

(He tries hard not to think about the other things that have changed, about the losses. They need to rebuild, focus on the bright things. He ignores the weight of the sling around his neck, the hollow space where a piece of himself should be.)

While Phil was busy musing over change, Fitz seems to have reined in his nerves a little. “It’s about your arm,” he goes on, his voice steadier. “Simmons and I have a project.”

Phil won’t deny that the conversation that follows is hard on him. To have all the consequences of his – _accident_ , he thinks, swallowing down the words again and again ( _amputation_ , _disability_ ) – the consequences of his accident spelled out for him in scientific detail makes him feel nauseous, and the effort he needs to suppress the urge to glance down at the place where his arm should be, over and over again, every time Fitz or Simmons mention it is tiring. And yet, there’s something fascinating about the way the two scientists somehow manage to bicker while simultaneously completing each other’s sentences (“The range of mobility, which –” “– is a standard engineering problem, as you will easily understand if you just pay attention to the number of degrees of freedom required –” “– but it also has biological implications that will need to be…”). They almost manage to draw Phil in, have him think of the whole situation as just another problem that can be solved.

Except that, of course, it can’t. It’s that thought exactly that prompts Phil’s last question. “So, you think you can fix this?” he asks, his voice betraying more than a touch of bitterness.

Fitz raises his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as if Coulson had just said something outlandish. “Of course not. I think we can _make this work_.”

***

“No, no no no, that shouldn’t be happening.” Fitz is pacing up and down in the lab, dragging his hand through his hair. Coulson is doing his best to follow him – physically and otherwise. “That should really not be happening. The neural interface doesn’t work properly. It’s –”

Phil tries to interrupt the flow of words. “It’s just phantom pains.” It doesn’t matter that he wakes up at night clutching at air in the empty space where his left hand should be. It doesn’t matter that there will be no way to achieve fine motor control until his fingers – fingers that _are not even there_ , he thinks angrily every time it happens – stop aching. “It was to be expected.”

The interruption only seems to make Fitz more agitated. “It wasn’t,” he snaps. “The prosthetic is supposed to help with that. The neural interface was designed to prevent – look, phantom pains are due to your nervous system remapping to compensate for the missing nerve endings. The interface was meant to help with that, not make things worse.”

“Well, in that case, I don’t think it’s working.”

“That’s what I was saying!” Fitz’s outburst is so loud that Phil can’t help but flinch a little. “Sorry,” he immediately rushes to apologize, wringing his hands. “I’m just – this was supposed to work.”

Despite how tremendously personal this whole thing is, Phil can’t overlook the fact that Fitz has never been so frustrated about an issue with his tech. Unfortunately, the reason for that is in plain view. He shoots a meaningful look towards Simmons’ abandoned – and untouched – lab bench. “Are you sure that you should be working on this right now?”

Fitz shakes his head in anguish. “Simmons left notes,” he says. “They’re – they’re good notes. Of course. I should be able to work this out even without her help.”

“That’s not what I was saying.” Phil tries to keep his tone gentle. Simmons’ disappearance into the monolith, whatever in the Universe it means, has left everyone shaken, but Fitz is obviously the one who is having the hardest time dealing with it. And, at the end of the day, Phil has a duty of care towards his team. His own – _issues_ are not important enough to warrant compromising Fitz’s well-being any further. “I know you’ll make it work,” he insists, placating, “but it’s really not that urgent.”

Fitz’s look tells him that he sees right through him. “Yeah,” he mutters, turning away. “I still have to figure it out.”

***

“We’re making an upgrade,” Fitz announces, strolling into Coulson’s office with a messy bunch of papers and what looks like blueprints in hand. Simmons follows closely behind him. She’s still looking a little pale, and she mostly sticks to the corners of any room bigger than her bedroom, but even with the bad news about Will, she’s made a lot of progress since she came back from Maveth.

The same, unfortunately, cannot be said of Coulson.

He jumps up at Fitz’s triumphant, if a little forced, tone, the neural implants attached to his left arm bumping loudly against his desk. They’re the only leftover from his former prosthetic, the one he abandoned on the planet. _After using it to kill a man, let’s not forget that._

“What kind of upgrades?” he asks, with more than a hint of distrust.

“I’ve been corresponding with Mr. Stark,” Fitz says, with obvious pride, but at the same time visibly keeping an eye on Coulson’s reaction. Still, since the only outward sign of displeasure is the little downward tilt of Coulson’s lips, he soldiers on. “He’s been doing some research.” He pauses for effect. “On Bucky Barnes’ arm.”

This gets Coulson’s attention. “They’ve found Barnes?” he snaps, already jumping back into Director mode. Fitz holds out a hand to stop him.

“No, but Stark has gathered data from Captain Rogers’ shield, as well as from the footage of the attack on the Triskelion and from what was left of the last Helicarrier’s instruments. He’s using it to reverse-engineer the arm, and it seems to be working. I think I’ve figured out how to apply that knowledge to your next prosthetic.”

Despite Fitz’s enthusiasm, Coulson’s mouth is still drawn into a frown. “That knowledge,” he says, slowly, “is Hydra technology.”

“Not my version,” Fitz shoots back, peeved. “Speaking of which –” he shuffles through his papers and takes out a design that looks a lot like – _is that Captain America’s shield?_ “– there’s one addition in particular I think you’ll like.”


	23. The Musketeers, Treville/Richelieu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **tatzelwyrm** : "Hi! idk if you're still taking prompts (your sidebar says yes, your rules post says no, I'm, sorry. D:), but if you do could you write some Treville/Richelieu set during the time shady things go down in Savoy? Maybe right after the dead musketeers have been found/retrieved/buried. Perhaps some h/c (probably after a lot of yelling)? If you could do something with them in an established relationship that’d be fab! :=)"

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Treville spits out, turning away from Richelieu. The light filtering through the windows in the Cardinal’s office throws his traits into stark, unforgiving relief.

Richelieu’s voice is icy as he answers. He sounds so detached, one could almost overlook the way he went pale at Treville’s words. “Contrary to what people seem to think, I do not take pride in killing good soldiers.”

“Does that apply to Musketeers as well?” There’s no mistaking the bite in Treville’s tone. There’s no mistaking the hurt underlying it, either. “Or was this just another calculated loss?”

“I am not happy with the way things went down, Captain.” He has to prevent himself from calling him by his given name. He knows that Treville wouldn’t be ready to accept that, not now. And, to be honest, he doesn’t know if he’s willing to give it, in the face of his lover’s anger and distrust.

“You’re not –” Treville cuts himself off with an angry gesture. It’s Richelieu’s turn to look away. “I have betrayed my men,” the Captain goes on, his voice hollow. “I have renounced my honor, and my loyalty, for what you assure me was the greater good. And you say you’re _not happy_.”

“What you want to say, I believe, is that your choice was my fault.”

This brings Treville’s sharp gaze back on him. “You say so.”

The Cardinal seems to have regained full control of himself. “And yet,” he smiles, all teeth, “you do not deny that it was what you were thinking. For you,” he continues, raising a hand to prevent Treville’s interruption, “this is about loyalty. You said you betrayed your men. But we both know that it was I who put you in a position where you couldn’t do anything but that. Isn’t this enough to save your honor?”

Treville stares back at him – in astonishment or disgust, Richelieu can’t tell.

“You, my Captain, are a man of loyalty. You’re loyal to your King, to France, and to your men. What would happen, I am tempted to ask, if all these noble principles were to come into conflict?” He raises to his feet, moving to stand in front of the window. It’s vital that he doesn’t look at his lover’s face as he does this.

“You didn’t give me a choice.” He can almost hear the dryness of Treville’s mouth, the way his words need to fight their way upwards through his throat before his lips can shape them.

“Exactly. Tell me, Jean –” He lets the blow fall, this time. “– if I had, would you have chosen any differently?”

The silence behind him is almost enough to make him think that Treville has left. Instead, when he turns around, he finds that the Captain hasn’t moved from his spot. More surprisingly still, he hasn’t looked away. This gives Richelieu plenty of time to read the hurt and regret etched onto his lover’s features all over again. For the first time, he asks himself if Treville was really looking for some sort of absolution when he came here, or if he has mistaken his intentions after all.

“Is this what you do?” the Captain finally asks, still not taking his eyes off Richelieu. “Take the blame upon yourself so that it doesn’t fall on others?”

Richelieu’s smile is thin. “When you think about it, it’s not far from the sacrament of confession,” he says. “Or a minister’s duty, if you prefer a less blasphemous option.”

“Only, instead of doing it for the King, today you did it for me.”

Richelieu’s only answer is to bow down in acknowledgment. As he rights himself, he catches sight of the bitter smile on Treville’s face.

For the first time since he’s met him, his lover, thirteen years younger than him and not aged prematurely by the trials of Church and politics, looks old.

“I never asked you for that.”

 _And yet, here it is_ , says Richelieu’s answering gesture. He still doesn’t know if, or when, Treville will walk away from this conversation.

“I lost twenty of my men in that forest,” Treville says, after a brief silence. “I knew all of their names. One of them survived, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to look him in the eye ever again. One ran away, and I can’t bring myself to condemn him for it.” Once more, he raises his eyes towards Richelieu. The movement is enough to let the single tear that was clinging to his eyelashes fall. “And yes, you were right. I would have made the same choice, if you’d let me. I would have saved your spy and let them die.”

This, seeing the tears on his lover’s face, is where Richelieu’s resolve breaks. As he moves closer to rest his hand on Treville’s shoulder, he refuses to ask himself what that means.

He doesn’t point out that the spy they saved was the Duchess of Savoy and the King’s sister. He doesn’t remind Treville that while the corpses of twenty Musketeers arrived in Paris to be buried today, another carriage with a much more valuable load has been sent to a French prison thanks to their sacrifice. There will be time for that, and it won’t be a time for comfort, for either of them.

“Believe me,” Richelieu says, as he gently guides his lover’s head to rest against his, “I never wanted it to end this way.”

“I know,” Treville answers, his shaky breath ghosting over Richelieu’s lips. “I know.”

The kiss is not a request for forgiveness. It never is, between them. One day, the Cardinal will ask himself if that’s because it’s not needed, or because it wouldn’t be granted. Today, he kisses the salt off his lover’s lips, and pretends not to notice the taste.


	24. MCU & Agents of SHIELD, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury & Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "Hey there! Love your Pheels fics could i ask for a fic focusing on Phil, Nick and Melinda’s PoV when it’s the anniversary of Phil’s death??"

Phil Coulson doesn’t really remember what he did on May 4, 2013. Or, rather, he remembers not doing anything especially notable. Sure, he did spare a thought towards the fact that, would you believe it, it was the anniversary of his death. But a few seconds missing from his heartbeat count didn’t really warrant more than a passing remembrance, and he was just starting to catch up with how things had been at SHIELD while he was recovering (typical of Nick to think that isolating him in a medical facility in Tahiti for eleven months was a good idea), so he didn’t really have the time to dwell upon that.

He ended up telling all those things to Hill, when she called him that night to check on his progress. (Another thing that was entirely typical of Nick, not trusting him to get back into the swing of things on his own. The Director was a mother hen, after all.) He didn’t give much weight to the short delay in her answer, like something was weighing on her conscience.

That night, as he tried to sleep, he struggled not to pay attention to the sensation that something – _someone?_ – was lurking at the back of his mind, that something – _everything_ – was _wrong wrong wrong_.

On May 4, 2014, around mid-afternoon, Phil Coulson stops and thinks, _two years ago, at this time of day, I didn’t exist_. It might be the first time – even after Raina, and Doctor Streiten, and TAHITI and May’s revelations (or should he say, his own) just a couple of days before – that Phil fully realizes what ‘you were dead for days’ _actually_ means.

***

Melinda May remembers waking up on May 4, 2013 and thinking, _it’s been a year_.

She remembers the feeling of complete helplessness at the thought that not only Phil was dead, had been dead for so many months now, but he was going to _stay_ dead. Things weren’t going to change. And if, many years before, Melinda would have had a chance to channel her anger and hurt into something useful – for SHIELD, or maybe, if she allowed herself to think that, for the world –, this time there was nothing she could do. She was going to walk into her office as normal, do her HR work, and go home. Nothing productive to focus her anger upon besides SHIELD’s abysmal filing system, and that didn’t exactly count as a good cause.

Meanwhile, Phil Coulson stayed dead, Melinda’s heart stayed empty, and many other years were going to pass in the same way.

The memory of that day is what brings her back to Phil, a few days before the second anniversary of his death. Of course, she needs to bring him the flash drive with the information about Project TAHITI. She needs to make things right, as much as she can. But she also knows that on May 4, she will need to wake up and see Phil, reassure herself he is alive, that there hasn’t been another year in which he wasn’t in the world.

When she sees him that morning, she can’t help but rest her hand on his forearm, to check that he’s really there. She doesn’t even think of restraining herself, for once. As for Phil, he merely smiles, and squeezes her arm back.

(Skye’s puzzled expression at the exchange speaks volumes about how much of SHIELD’s history she doesn’t yet know. Judging from Fitzsimmons’ joint stares, she’s going to get a briefing on what today means very soon. Melinda is surprisingly okay with that.)

***

On May 4, 2014, former Director of SHIELD Nick Fury stares at the blinking light of the GPS tracker on his computer screen and prays that it means what he thinks it means.

He wasn’t so stupid to bury one of SHIELD’s best-guarded secrets in Phil Coulson’s grave without taking his precautions. Symbolism was great, but a good tracking system also went a long way to ensure that vital information didn’t fall into the wrong hands. What he didn’t expect was that when the flash drive was retrieved he wouldn’t be on a Helicarrier or in his office at the Triskelion, ready to send Hill or Romanoff onto Melinda May’s tracks, but hiding in a van in Cincinnati, a month after SHIELD fell under Hydra’s attack. Try as he might to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault, the truth is, he hadn’t foreseen any of this. The bright dot on the map in his computer is just another reminder of that.

Still, he knows that May spoke with Hill just before the flash drive started moving. He knows that the day he doesn’t trust Maria Hill, or Phil Coulson, is the day he can retire for real, hide himself in some hole in Mongolia or something like that. (He would choose a more densely populated country, of course. Crowds are better for hiding than complete isolation. Still, the idea of living in a literal desert is becoming more and more appealing by the day.)

As for Melinda May, he remembers calling her to his office on the first anniversary of Phil’s death. He remembers the look on her face when he told her about Project TAHITI, and that’s how he knows that he can trust her too.

So, all of his evidence points to the fact that Phil Coulson has the flash drive, and, as a consequence, that he knows about what was done to him. What that will mean in the long run, Nick doesn’t know. It might be that he finally managed to kill his best friend. That was, after all, what happened to the other TAHITI subjects whose memory wipe didn’t work out perfectly. Still, Nick Fury thinks, as he gets ready to leave Cincinnati and finally follow that blinking dot on his screen, that doesn’t mean that he’s going to let Coulson get himself killed before that becomes absolutely inevitable. There is, after all, the matter of SHIELD’s vacant Directorship to address.


	25. Agents of SHIELD, Phil Coulson/Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **calltomuster** with [this gifset](http://calltomuster.tumblr.com/post/150033553202/philindagifs-14-days-to-season-four).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys (and gals and nonbinary pals), I realized that not only did I pretty much disappear for a couple of months since I moved to the UK, I didn't even finish updating this collection with my last filled prompts. Sorry, my life has been a bit busy. I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things, though, and will resume filling prompts soon (working on my next one already).

“I’ve been away for barely four weeks, Phil. I just –” She almost says, _I just came back from my vacation_ , but manages to cut herself off in time. That’s what the time she spends with Andrew always does to her – it makes her softer, lets her believe that she can afford not to control herself every second she’s awake without being killed for it. That’s one of the reasons why she left him, back then, after Bahrain. It wasn’t something she could allow herself to think at the time. She wonders if now is really so different, after all.

At the other end of the line, she hears a sound that she recognizes as Coulson’s throat working as he swallows, the way it always does when he’s tense. “I wasn’t sure you’d pick up,” he finally says.

“You asked to speak to me, and I sent you this number. Why wouldn’t I pick up?”

The audible rustle on the other side makes her smile against her will. Good to know that she can still make Phil squirm, even when she’s a few hundred miles away.

In the end, he chooses to deflect. “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you.”

“Not really.” She is, but she isn’t about to tell him.

Her palms are sweating, she realizes. It makes her think about DNA traces, fingerprints, and whether or not to bother with wiping the payphone handset as soon as she’s finished with the call. She dismisses the thought as useless. If Coulson wants to know where she is, he’ll be already tracing the call. And, given that he has both Fitz and Daisy on his side, it would be naïve to try and cut the conversation short before they had a chance to locate her.

“I –” Again, Phil swallows audibly. As much as Melinda would like to pretend that this isn’t affecting her, it sends a spike of worry through her gut. “I thought you should know. We lost Simmons.”

The edges of Melinda’s vision go gray and fuzzy for a second. “Simmons is dead? Who –” _How do I kill them._

“No! No, it’s – we don’t know yet. She might have survived. The – the monolith. The one we took from the _Iliad_. A week ago, it – swallowed her.”

She exhales forcefully through her nose, willing herself to calm down. “Tell me what happened.”

The questions start crowding her mind as soon as Phil starts talking. They all trace back to the most basic one – _what will you do?_ She isn’t so naïve as to think that this doesn’t entail, _do you need my help?_

She swallows the questions down. That (SHIELD, _Phil_ ) is not her life any more. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That must be hard on your team.”

The possessive might have been overselling it a little, she thinks. When Phil finally answers, his voice sounds different, more controlled. Director-like, she used to call it. “As I said, I thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” she replies, mirroring his affectation of indifference. That’s one game she knows she can beat him at.

They both stay silent for a few seconds. It seems to be a recurring theme in this call. As usual, Phil is the first to cave.

“Will I – will we speak again anytime soon?”

She can afford to be honest on this one, she thinks. “I hope so.” _As long as you don’t try to bring me back._

“Good,” he exhales.

It would be cruel to hang up without another word, so she doesn’t. She has no reason to be cruel towards him, after all. “Be safe, Phil,” she says, before setting the handset back on its hook.

***

At the other end of the line, Phil Coulson carefully does _not_ stare at the phone in his hand before putting it down.

“We got her position, sir,” Fitz says. The implied _at least_ is about as subtle as Daisy’s worried gaze on him. “She’s at LAX.”

“As in, Los Angeles Airport,” Daisy pipes up, finally taking her eyes off Phil.

“I know what LAX stands for.” It should be embarrassing to admit to himself that his mind is still trying to wrap itself around the fact that May is not coming back. Somehow, it isn’t. It feels like missing a limb, he thinks – a sensation he’s come to know all too well. The fact that he hasn’t been able to tie a single one of his ties on his own since May isn’t there to help doesn’t do much to take his mind off the comparison.

“Do we send someone to –” Daisy falters mid-sentence. There is, after all, no reasonable way to complete that thought.

He shakes his head. “No. We’re leaving her alone.”

The wide-eyed glance between Fitz and Daisy speaks volumes. Still, they nod and pack up their equipment without objecting. As soon as they’ve left him alone, Phil gives in to the temptation of stroking his thumb over the phone he just used. It’s a silly comfort gesture, but it makes him feel as if he could still hear May’s voice.


	26. Agents of SHIELD, (one-sided) Phil Coulson/Melinda May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by **Anonymous** : "How do you think Phil felt when he found out Melinda was engaged/married?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was technically not supposed to be a prompt, but a question from the Very Nice Philinda Anon that brightened the fandom's days for a week or so because this season of AoS started. Still, I took it as a prompt, and here we are.
> 
>  **Warning** for unrequited love/complicated feelings and for Andrew/Melinda (as implied by the prompt).

“We’re getting married. Andrew and I.”

She lets the news drop almost casually, while they’re out for drinks one night with what Nick calls ‘Phil’s awkward bunch of spy friends’ and Phil simply calls his team. She says it with a nonchalance that most people would probably read as carelessness, but that is actually more of a silent plead for the others not to make a big deal of this.

Well, not too big of a deal, at least. As the first one on the team to get engaged, she can’t exactly hope that the announcement will go unremarked.

Reactions, predictably, vary. Barton wolf-whistles, because he’s Barton, and he’s not going to stop pretending to be an unrefined carnie as long as it makes dealing with other people easier. Jasper exclaims, “But I can’t see a ring!”, to which Melinda simply raises an eyebrow in an ‘are you fucking kidding me’ expression that makes Romanoff smile proudly from the other side of the booth. As for Maria, she nods as if she was just expecting this to happen, one day or another.

Phil’s first reaction is one of genuine happiness. He’s lucky, because that’s the one Melinda will remember: her best friend beaming at her from across the table, eyes shining with affection and maybe a hint of pride. It takes about two seconds for the full realization to set in, and for Phil’s stomach to seize up so painfully that he isn’t able to swallow another gulp of his beer for the next ten minutes.

He’s careful to wait until the conversation has moved on to a different topic before excusing himself to the restroom. It still earns him a pointed look from Barton, but Phil knows that he won’t mention it. As soon as he’s out of the others’ sight, he lets the tension in his body show on the surface.

His feet carry him to the restroom automatically, until he finds himself staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror over one of the sinks. It might not be the best place to have an existential crisis, he thinks, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to be picky.

The thing is, he _is_ happy for Melinda. He couldn’t have faked it if he tried, not with her, but his first reaction was entirely sincere. He likes Andrew, he trusts him (as far as a spy can ever trust someone who isn’t another spy), and, most importantly, he really, genuinely likes the thought of him and Melinda together. The fact that they’re planning to be together _forever_ , whatever that means for them, shouldn’t change things.

So, why does he feel like the ground has been pulled out from under his feet?

It’s not because ‘forever’ is a dangerous concept in their line of work, although there’s that, too. Phil knows he’d hate it if Melinda got hurt, and of course this relationship with Andrew has the potential to hurt her. So does everything they do in their everyday life, and most of it is technically Phil’s responsibility, as the team leader. And it’s true that Andrew is a civilian, and as such potentially liable not to understand what Melinda goes through every day, but he’s also a therapist, and a teacher – all things that Phil recognizes and appreciates for what they are. If anything, this marriage proposal – whoever made it, he thinks, realizing that Melinda didn’t actually say who it was – confirms Andrew’s willingness to be at Melinda’s side.

So, back to square one. Where’s the ( _Phil’s_ ) problem?

The problem, Phil thinks, is that he’s still focusing too much on Andrew and too little on himself. The problem is that no matter how happy he thought he was for Melinda’s relationship, he’s never truly regarded it as permanent until today.

Since the Academy, he’s always thought about Melinda as the one constant in his life. True, he has other friends – they both do, and they can even afford to trust most of them. Still, Melinda has always been special. She’s the one who has been there the longest, and that Phil holds closest to his heart.

That, paradoxical or not, made it hard to be jealous of Andrew, when he first came around, or of anyone else in Melinda’s life, for that matter. After all, Phil had been there before them. They couldn’t threaten him.

Now, though, someone else has moved to that same spot of permanence in Melinda’s life. Not just that: to a spot that is traditionally assumed to mean domestic life, growing old together, _children_. All things that Phil had always automatically discounted for himself. To his own horror, Phil has just found out that he’s jealous.

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. There’s a (reasonable and mature) part of him, of course, that says that he has to talk to Melinda about this, preferably before it becomes a problem. Predictably, there’s also another, much more powerful part that wants to bury these feelings in a ditch somewhere and never look at them again.

Most importantly, he’s worried about how Melinda would react. Because no matter the reason, Phil knows that he has absolutely no right to feel like this. And he isn’t sure that Melinda would be willing to overlook that, if she knew. That his own fears are getting the best of him is bad enough without the possibility that Melinda might grow even more distant because of it.

As it is, he looks at his reflection, making sure that his expression is back to neutral before rejoining the others at their table. There will be time to decide what to do, he thinks. Today, he just has to get through the night with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to send me a prompt, check out my [Prompts info](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/prompts) page on Tumblr.
> 
> ETA (16/07/2017): It has been brought to my attention that, while this kind of mixed prompt collection is very handy for me as a creator, the format is very annoying to readers who are only interested in one ship or fandom -- plus it clutters the tags, especially for less-popular ships. For this reason, I'm marking this work as finished and starting a prompt series, with one fic for each fandom.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Simple Act Of Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7501938) by [CallToMuster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallToMuster/pseuds/CallToMuster)




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